The evening stretched into night. We talked about everything and nothing. About her childhood, about my time playing rugby, about the baby growing inside her that we both marveled at.
Her body started to ache around nine. She shifted on the sofa, her hand going to her lower back, wincing.
"Princesse?"
"I'm fine. Just sore. I think the journey–"
"Come here." I pulled her feet into my lap and started massaging, my thumbs working into the arch of her foot.
She groaned, her head falling back against the cushions. "Oh my God."
"Good?"
"So good."
I worked my way up to her ankles, her calves, watching the tension drain from her body. By the time I finished, her eyes were half-closed, her breathing slow and even.
"Bed," I said, standing and scooping her up in my arms before she could protest.
"I can walk."
"I know. But I want to carry you."
I took her to the bathroom, helped her brush her teeth and quickly washed her before taking her to the bedroom, laying her down on the bed. She curled onto her side, watching me as I took off my clothes and climbed in behind her.
I pulled her against my chest, my arm wrapping around her waist, my hand settling over the place where our baby was growing.
"Etienne?"
"Oui, Princesse?"
"Thank you. For not being angry. For understanding."
I pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "Thank you forcoming to me."
She was asleep within minutes, her breathing deep and even, her body finally relaxed.
And as I lay there in the dark, feeling her heartbeat against my palm, one thing for certain.
Tomorrow, we would go back to London.
Tomorrow, Fritz and I would claim her together.
But a sound outside stopped my thoughts.
28
Hastings
I didn't fly thehelicopter to Wales so much as I hurled myself across the sky in it.
The machine vibrated under my hands, the controls slick with sweat despite the cold. Every second she was away from me was a second spent drowning.
The bond in my chest pulled taut, stretched thin across the distance between London and Wales, threatening to snap.
I'd spent thirty-five years being the architect of my own life, building empires with careful, calculated risks. But in three hours, Presley had burned the blueprints and walked out the door.
When I'd found her empty room, I knew then I failed at being an alpha. Her absence made me feel like I was a shell of myself. Fritz had found me in the study with my tie shredded on the floor, my bespoke shirt ripped at the collar because my hands had needed something to destroy and my throat had felt too tight to breathe.
