Knight-in-Arms - Ultimatum: (BWWM Interracial Paranormal Billionaire Shifter Romance Part Four [Final])

Copyright

Copyright © 2015 Athena Dore

The right of Athena Dore to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior permission in writing of the author, except for brief quotations featured in critical reviews, or certain other non-commercial purposes in accordance with copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

~*~

A booming, whirring sound rushed through the window. Rochelle looked up.

The doors burst open and there was a flurry of white as six people in white coats rushed in, the two at the front holding guns, poised to shoot.

Rochelle shrank back from them, shielding Xavier with her body. He was laying there so conspicuously. She wished she could hide him but it was already too late.

The two armed men scoured the room with their gaze.

One spotted them.

"Target sighted" he cried.

The rest of them turned to the 'target' and started coming towards her. This was it, thought Rochelle, this was the end. She tried even harder to shield Xavier from the attackers but she knew it was futile. She closed her eyes.

"It's all right" said a woman close to her as she knelt down beside Xavier, "We're the people you called. We're here to help".

Rochelle relaxed - as much as she could with an unconscious, bleeding Xavier before her.

In an instant, the team had whisked him onto a stretcher and out of the room. Rochelle went along with them, trying to keep up with their speed.

They brought him along a passage. It was dim, the only light coming from brackets adorning the oak-panelled walls.

There was a lift at the end. They all shuffled inside. It was deadly silent. Rochelle could feel her heat beating, keeping in time with her thoughts.
Please don't die. Please don't die. Please don't die.

She watched the dial go to the top floor. Then, everyone spilled out. An empty corridor, like the one on the previous floor. They walked along until they came to a door.

Stairs.

The stairs led to the roof and perched there in the helipad was a large, black helicopter.

The door was already open, waiting for him. Everyone darted inside and there was a loud rumble as the helicopter whirred into life. Then, they were off.

Rochelle watched helplessly as the team swooped into action, hooking him up to machines and apparatus she didn't understand, using technical medical jargon she couldn't quite follow. She understood though that his condition was serious and it was too early to tell whether he would make it.

It felt like they had been up in the air for an age but it couldn't have been more than a couple of hours as soon enough, she saw the familiar lights of the London Eye, Westminster and the glistening surface of the Thames. They were over London.

She turned back to Xavier as they landed. She hadn't stopped holding his hand.

They landed. Everything became a blur. The team whisked him from the helicopter, transferring him to a trolley and took him inside. She tried to keep up but they were too fast.

It was bright inside. For a moment, she was dazzled.

Dr Cate Astor met them just inside the door.

One of the team started filling her in on his condition. Rochelle tried to listen to them, to understand how he was doing but once again, it was just jargon.

They took him down an empty corridor. The walls were clinically white - sterile and uninviting.

And then he went through a set of double doors where she was unable to follow.

Silence.  And waiting. And more silence. No news was good news, wasn't it? But she wasn't so sure. She felt sick and anxious. All she could do was replay the moment in her head as she saw the knife slice into his abdomen.

If she had been quicker...more alert, she could have stopped it from happening.

Guilt.

It was her fault.

Sitting out there, isolated and tormented by the echoes of her never ending thoughts, she dosed off, falling into a shallow sleep accompanied by troubled dreams. Xavier was dead and it was all her fault.

"Rochelle?"

She stirred and woke up. Xavier was dead. She felt a sickening lurch in her chest.

As she became more awake, she realised it had just been a dream. Instead, her stomach twisted itself in knots as she remembered that she still didn't know how he was. To her right now, he was both dead and alive, like Schrodinger’s cat.

Her bleary eyes focused on the person who had called her.

Dr Astor.

Dr Astor’s face looked pale with exhaustion. She didn't look happy or cheerful - an ominous sign. However, this might just be because she was too tired to smile.

Rochelle sat up.

"How is he?"

"He's stable" Dr Astor said.

Rochelle closed her eyes and sighed with relief.

"He hasn't woken up yet but there were no complications during his surgery. You should go home and get some rest”.

Rochelle wanted to stay where she was but Dr Astor persuaded her that she would feel better once she’d had a good night’s sleep. Rochelle knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep well, but she yielded to the logic of the situation. A chauffeur-driven car turned up to take her home. Lower Ferton was an hour away but driving there seemed to take forever. Every day, she’d be an hour away from Xavier. How would she cope?

She visited him every day. Xavier’s staff had dropped off her luggage and things from Italy and seeing her outfits and gifts and souvenirs made her heart ache, remembering a time before all this had happened.

She stayed with him from when the streetlamps were switched off in the morning, to long after they came on again in the evening.

She fell asleep resting her head on the bed. She dreamt that Xavier was awake. They were on the beach. He walked up to her. He was smiling. He laid his hands on her shoulders.

“Rochelle” he said.

She woke up, the bright warmth of the dream fading into the bleak surroundings of the hospital.

“Rochelle” the voice said again. She looked up and there was Xavier, awake.

“You’re awake!” she cried.

She reached out to touch his face but his eyes fluttered shut and the heart monitor flatlined. All sorts of alarms started sounding.

“Xavier?” she cried, shaking him but he didn’t wake up.

The medical staff rushed in, opening his gown, placing the defibrillator paddles on his chest and shocking him. It didn’t work. They tried again. It still didn’t work.

Rochelle was trembling in the corner. Was this the end? But it couldn’t be.
Please don’t die, Xavier; I need you.

The third shock brought his heart back into rhythm.

Later that day, Dr Astor confided in her that they didn’t know what was wrong with him. Certain organs seemed to be shutting down without explanation.

Dr Astor didn’t have to spell it out for her: Xavier was dying.

*              *              *

Rochelle knew that Xavier had been fine before he’d been stabbed. If anyone knew what was wrong with him, it would be the Order of Jessick.

She found the address of their UK headquarters on the Internet and went down to London.

She was taken to a room with dark oak panelling. She knocked.

“Come in”.

It was that distinct drawl so familiar from Italy.

She opened the door. Tobias Maximus Heath sat at an extravagant mahogany desk opposite. He was wearing a brown suit and scribbling something down furiously. He stopped immediately when he saw her, as though he had been looking forward all day to seeing her and was only writing to pass the time.

“What a pleasant surprise, Miss Phillips”, he said, “It’s a pleasure to see you again”.

The pleasure’s all his, Rochelle wanted to say but she forced herself to remain civil. Xavier needed this.

“Hello” she said.

He stood up, walking round to the front of the desk and resting against it.

“What can I do for you?”

“I need your help” she said.

“My help?” asked Tobias, “Interesting…”

He picked up an expensive-looking green and gold pen, and twirled it around his fingers.

“Xavier’s ill”, she said, trying to keep her voice steady, “Really ill”.

“Yes, I heard about his little predicament”.

Rochelle fought back her tears.

“It isn’t a ‘little predicament’”, she retorted, “He’s dying. And we don’t know why”.

“Berudellum” said Tobias.

“I’m sorry?”

“Berudellum”, repeated Tobias, “I’m sure he takes beast-suppressing drugs?”

“Yes”.

“Well, Berudellum was the unsuccessful precursor. Instead of suppressing the beast, it suppressed everything – immune system, cardiovascular system, brain function and so on, resulting in death. We tip the blades of our knives with it now for a more deadly blow”.

“W-well, can’t you help him?”

Tobias put down the pen. He ran his hand idly along the smooth, glossy edge of the desk.

“I can” he said, looking back at her.

Putting his hands in his pockets, he walked towards her. He stopped directly in front of her.

“But I want to know, Miss Phillips, if I help him…”

He went very close to her, leaned forward and said quietly into her ear:

“What will
you
do for
me
?”

He paused there, waiting for an answer. Somehow, his closeness to her chilled her blood. She swallowed, nervously.

“Anything” she said. At her sides, her hands clenched into fists.

“Anything?”

“Anything”.

“You might want to think about that carefully, Miss Phillips”.

Knowing him, he’d ask her to do something impossible, awful or morally corrupt. But she’d do it to save Xavier. Anything for Xavier.

“I’ve made my decision”.

“Good”.

He drew away from her. Rochelle felt trapped and afraid, like she’d sold her soul to the devil.

“What do I have to do?”

He smiled. It was a broad, open smile but at the same time, it was empty. She couldn’t detect any emotion there, couldn’t read what it was he was trying to convey.

“We have a reach out programme for young human women pregnant with shifter babies” he began, “Picture these girls, Miss Phillips, alone, confused and afraid. Perhaps they are no longer with the father, perhaps they’ve run away from home, perhaps they don’t even know their baby isn’t human. Some of them are still mere teenagers.

“We reach out to them.  We provide food, shelter, specialised medical care, a sense of community. These girls don’t have to be alone, Miss Phillips; they don’t have to be afraid, no, not with the Order”.

It sounded so charitable, Rochelle almost wanted to believe him. But knowing him, knowing the Order, there was a catch; there had to be.