Black Collar Queen (Black Collar Syndicate Book 2) (21 page)

He swallows the urge to
twitch away from the sting and sound of the tattoo machine. Just take it,
because after all of it, he has finally earned the right to wear the mark of
his family. He's the fucking king, and he will not be unseated by the greed of
his uncle. He will be the man worthy of the snake, and the crown, and he will
honor his dead.
 

And once he's done that,
he'll make it all bigger.
 

Caleb was always worthy,
regardless of his parents’ transgressions. He earned it a long time ago, and
never knew why he had to. And Seth wasn’t’ there for him when he learned the
truth, and because of the nature of it, no one was there for Caleb. No one
could possibly understand the demons that troubled the golden prince.

Tears
well against his eyelids, he can't stop them, and they roll down into his hair.
He doesn't move. His expression remains the mask, except for that telling wet.
Here's to you, Caleb, the most infuriating
and stubborn asshole I've ever known. The one to always have my back, who beat
some humility into me and kept me from becoming a smoker. You were a martyr,
died so it wouldn't be me, and you never said a fucking word about it. Maybe
you weren't a real Morgan to some of them, but you were still my brother
.

He doesn't say a word
during the entire tattoo, so neither does Fitz, not until he sets down his
machine, and says, “You're done.”

Seth opens his eyes,
stares up for a moment and realizes that Fitz's eyes are misty, who makes an
embarrassed grin and looks away. He says, “Sorry. You were crying, and she was
crying, and I'm a big softy, and I got to thinking about your brother.”

Emma surprises them both
by stepping up beside Fitz, and laying a hand on his shoulder. She smiles at
the artist, and it's genuine, not the facade she can so easily call upon. Then
she looks down at Seth, at the slightly swollen black and gray snake. She says,
“It's gorgeous. They both are.”

Seth stands, faces the
mirror. He stares for a long time, until the tears threaten to rise again. Then
he nods. Caleb would be proud of him for finally taking it. Emma ambles to his
side, and he puts his arm around her. She quietly says, “He would like
them.”
 
He can hear the tears in her
voice.

Seth smiles, squeezes
her shoulder, and he says, “Yeah. He would.”

Chapter 30
.
Morgan Estates. New York City December 1
^st
 

It's
Early Afternoon
, and the sun has begun its downward arc, so it shines full
through the windows behind Seth's desk. His morning was fraught with tense
deliberation. Several of the Coast Guard on Syndicate payroll have seemingly
organized, and are demanding higher fees for their services. Ripples of
defiance have reached the outer rungs of the empire, and even the damn guard
peons are testing Seth's age.
 

He's so damn young
compared to so many of them, those who worked for his father, and then his
uncle. How can he blame them? He can't. That's why he lobbied to negotiate,
regardless of the vicious cycle that could result. All he can do is show them
that he's trying, and all he can do in this quiet, sunny moment is stare out at
the city.

It feels good with his
sleek chair's back to his desk, and the lobby beyond. The days and weeks have
begun to blur together as momentum builds. His time is filled with meeting
after phone call after camera flash, and his rare quiet moments are haunted by
hushed rumors and shaky alliances. Always, there are possibilities that Remi
Oliver has been lying to his face. The bank tycoon swears by the code that
he’s’ ordered no further retribution, and Seth wants to believe that the man
will actually honor that code. Then there's still the issue of Emma's mother.

Seth fingers his double
Windsor, his frustration getting the better of him, and his features darken as
he rips the thing free. He can already breathe a little better. He drops the
expensive silk to the floor, and works loose his top few buttons with his free
hand. It's Friday. The weekends have held no meaning since his return. He works
every day. Not a single day passes when he can wake up and say, “I'm not the
king for today. Business will handle itself.”

Emma has locked herself
away with some financials, which she has taken to doing when she needs space
from being the middle point between Seth and Rama. She'll be at it for hours,
and not in the mood to enjoy a relaxing afternoon.
 

He slips the button of
one cuff through its hole, then deftly rolls the sleeve up to his elbow. He
suddenly can't stomach the thought of one more serious conversation today. The
warmth of the sun is nice, brings a thin sweat to his skin despite the
artificial chill of the office.

He honestly can't
remember the last time he took a moment to appreciate something so simple.

He smirks.

The chair doesn't make a
sound when he spins around and smashes the button on his phone. He's already
rolling up his other sleeve.

“Rissa?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Reschedule this
afternoon's meeting with Legal. I'm leaving.”

The silence is thick on
the speaker, then, “Yes sir.”

“Thank you.”

He snatches his cell off
the desk and spins back to the city. New York can be warm sometimes; you just
have to find the right perspective. And who better to find perspective? The
scarlet-lettered reporter. He taps the phone icon beside her name.

“Well, if it isn't
Prince Charming, who whisks a girl to the ball and then doesn't call for
weeks.”

His smile breaks into
full-fledged. Will she always be the only one who isn't scared to talk shit to
him?
 

“You're a sweetheart as
always, Vera.”

The quiet on her end is
telling, both of the effect of her name in his tone, and that she isn't in the
newsroom. Then she says, “What could you possibly want now? I never know what
to expect. Shall we fly away on a private jet to some island that you own?”

Her sarcasm is
ever-pointed, and it gets him every time. He has to stifle a laugh to say,

“Do you want to?”

He can practically hear
her scowl, can picture that look in his mind's eye. His cheeks have fired, and
he thinks of that morning in Cuba, dick in hand with this impetuous woman as
his muse.

She says, “Oh you
grandiose asshole.”

Now he does laugh, a low
growl that vibrates into the phone. He says, “I want to see you.”

Her voice is so quiet
when she answers, “You're impossible. You know that, don't you?”

He ruffles a hand
through his hair, just in case it's behaving at all. He's got her; they both
know it. Still, he appreciates her attempt at resistance. He says, “What?
You're not working.”

She huffs, says, “I'm
about to go to the gym.”

He spins around to his
office, to the testament of his status. He has everything, yet still he's using
everything he's got just to get the girl. Little red lights blink on his phone,
lines full of people trying to reach him. He says, “You'd rather go work out
than let me take you out?”

“Is this something that
requires a dress? Because this is rather short notice.”

She puts as much bite
into her words as she can manage, but she still doesn't say no. He laughs
again, a genuine sound that is almost foreign to him these days.
 

“No dress; wear whatever
you want. I'm going to change clothes, then I will be on my way in five
minutes.”

“Seth, what the hell –”
He hangs up.
 

On the drive to Vera's
townhouse, Seth taps out a text to Emma that he will be off the grid for the
afternoon. He sees that she responds with the one question he doesn't feel like
answering:
Why?
 

He ignores it.

Then they are pulling up
to the curb. He abandons the phone on the Bentley's seat, and hops out to wait
for her. He has dressed down in a pair of jeans, his old Docs, and a trusty
white v-neck t-shirt under a lightweight brown coat – nothing new, all
well-worn. Shades in place, he leans back against the car door.
 

Something about this
uncharacteristically warm afternoon, something in the clear blue of the sky and
mottling of shadows on the sidewalks, reminds him of fall in high school. It's
chilly, but not quite cold like the days have been, and the air smells crisp.
He almost expects to see Caleb sauntering toward him with his gaggle of girls
in tow. Back then, things were so simple. Friday, the beginning of the weekend,
which lasted so long when he was young. What else to do but gather the girls
and find some trouble?
 

He shakes himself of
these thoughts when the townhouse door opens. Vera emerges in a calf-length
brown skirt and thin cream sweater, black leggings and boots. Seth sings a
silent,

“Fuck yes.” Her hair is
down is all its fiery glory, hanging around her shoulders in soft curls.
 

She slips a pair of
giant sunglasses over her eyes and struts down the stairs, though she stops
several feet in front of him to dramatically lift those damn glasses right back
off her eyes, and look him over. She says, “Oh my god, he is a real boy.”

He gives his most
charming, boyish grin and shrugs one shoulder in mock shyness. He doesn't say
anything though, just steps forward, hooks an arm around her to pull her
closer, and catches her mouth against his. Any further verbal attack halts in
her throat, and she takes the passion he unleashes against her lips. When he
pulls away, he's grinning again, and her eyes are wide.
  

His voice is hushed when
he says, “I've missed you.”
 

His tone is still that
strange shade of sheepish, so that she must wonder if it's not an act at all.

“Don't bullshit me,” she
says.

He shakes his head with
a silent laugh, and opens the car door for her.
  

She climbs in, past his
phone, and he climbs in after her. As they begin the smooth roll into traffic,
she glances at the phone. He fields her gaze, can almost know what she's
thinking, so he grabs the device, and presses the power button. He says, “Not
today.”

She stares at him for a
long moment, disbelief clear in her features. She says, “What exactly are you
doing, Seth Morgan?”

He stashes the phone in
a compartment, and says, “I'm taking an afternoon to do something I want to
do.”

Her gaze wanders down
his so-casual attire, the ease that lies beneath the clothes, and he reminds
her of himself, so many years ago. She leans toward him, so close that they're
almost touching, and she looks him straight in the eye with that intense green.
The bite is still there when she says, “Is that how it is, then?”

He runs a thumb across
her bottom lip, cups her face in his hand, and smirks the words, “You have no
idea how it is.” His mouth brushes against his own finger, all that separates
their lips. “And no bullshit. I've missed you.”

She goes still against
his touch, her gaze intense as she searches him. She wants to believe him, but
she doesn't know this side of him. He's so surreal, or real, as the case may
be. She pulls back, but he stops her by curling his fingers into her hair, not
so hard that it will hurt, but enough to stop her retreat.
 

She says, “So does ‘take
me out’ mean a quickie in a rolling limo?”

She's still clinging to
the bitter side of what has always been between them—the fact that she doesn't
see him for months at a time, the fact that evidence shows they overwhelming
only meet up to fuck, or do some shady business that could make or break them
both. But this, this softness, and this intimacy—it's everything she could have
imagined during long sleepless nights, and it's so goddamned perfect that she
has to question it. In a world like his, can he ever really be himself? Can he
be so honest to the enemy he beds? Or has she really and finally crossed the
line from enemy to ally?

He lowers his hand,
presses his lips to hers, more gently than ever before, and says, “Not even
close.”

She lifts her eyebrows,
says, “Oh really? What then?”

Finally, he pulls away
with a smirk. Good thing. His proximity is like a drug, and his kisses even
more so. He says, “You'll see when we get there. I do hope you went ahead and
cleared your schedule for the day.”

She laughs. She can't
contain it, and the sound comes dressed in disbelief. He is so incredibly and
completely sure of himself, sure that he can call her to his side with no
notice and become her priority. He's so certain he can demolish any plans she
may have had. Goddamn him, he's so right.
 

She gives her attention
to the city's creep outside the window, rather than let him have it so easily.
She's quiet when she asks, “How did you know I wasn't working, that I just
happened to get my assignment in early today?”

He chuckles, amusement
thick in the sound, and he pops open the minibar. He doesn't look at her either
when he answers, “I didn't, but don't you know by now that this city loves me?

She works it out, just for me.”

Vera turns back to him.
Sure, she's always known that that's true, but to hear him say it in his
relaxed-fit tone sets a smoldering mass in her. She wants him already. There is
never a moment when she doesn't. His eyes are bright when he turns back to her
with a drink in each hand, two fingers in each.

“What is this?” she
asks, sniffing hers as she accepts.

“Applejack,” he says.
“Feels like a good day for brandy. Cheers.”

Their glasses clink, and
Vera says, “To the illustrious Seth Morgan, conqueror of my

Friday afternoon, and
day-drinker without shame!”

He laughs hard enough to
bring color to life in his cheeks, and he joins in the toast. “And to the
devilish Vera Rohan, the spoils of my Friday afternoon conquest, and a damn
good thing to toast to.”

A blush fires in her
cheeks, and she feels like she has already been drinking. A blush, something
Seth is sure he's never seen her do. He watches her as they both sip their
drinks. She glances away, asks, “What?”

“You're blushing.”

“I'm not blushing. I
probably wasn't even the first one you called.”

His smile fades a
fraction, but it still hooks in one corner. “Actually,” he says, soft and
serious, “you were.”

“I'm sorry,” she says
quickly. “That was rude. I just—well, I don't know what to do with this version
of you, Seth.”

She can't say exactly
how she expects him to react. She's definitely not expecting that boyish smile
to stay fixed, but it does. She doesn't expect him to slip his hand into hers,
but he does. And she doesn't expect his tension to melt, but it does.
 

He says, “I think you'll
find you know exactly what to do. I was counting on it.”

His breezy manner puts
her at ease, makes it simple for her to say, “Fucking you is easy, darling;
it's all this time before that happens that's strange.”

He grins into another
sip, eyeing her sidelong. Then he says, “Then I guess you'll have to get to
know me all over again.”