His Pretty Little Burden: A Dark Mafia, Age Gap Romance (Kids of The District Book 4)

MY ABDOMEN COILS AND THROBS, never letting up with the reminder I’m having my period for the first time in months. Skipping along with the discomfort is the fact that my bags are in the boot, and we have been on this country road for an hour, heading to an unknown-to-me destination.

I’ve never even left the District.

I might have been excited if I could feel more than the sadness clouding my mind, sitting heavily atop all other thoughts.

As I look down at Clay’s hand on my thigh, his fingers dipping into my skin in a gentle, commanding hold, I reach for happiness, for excitement. I remember wanting this moment, wanting to feel someone strong and dependable put their hand on my thigh. An indication the relationship is real. It is real. I wish I could appreciate it more but the swing of my mood only sways from sad to guilt and back again.

I peer back out of the window, trying not to let my emotions show, trying to veil them in a mask of fatigue. Clay stares at me; the feel of his gaze is everything and so much more, but not enough to ebb the hormones firing through me.

The road is hilly. I have never seen trees so high they weave above the road, creating an organic canopy, only breached by strobes from the sun. It’s so fucking beautiful, and as we veer left onto a dirty road, a bespoken wood and stone house stands in the distance.

We cross from dusty red roads into lush greenery and manicured gardens, and I can’t silence my mother’s voice in my head as she lectures me about sustainable water protocol.

“What is this place?” I ask, my knees pressed against the passenger door as I gaze through the tinted glass. We are approaching a lavish manor-style homestead that looks like it’s plucked straight from the country in England and dumped in the District’s outback. Through the vast glass frontage, a fire dances from within a floor-to-ceiling stone hearth. “Do you own this house?”

Following my gaze out the window, as though to check the subject of my inquiry, he says, “Yes, sweet girl. I used to come here when I needed to get away from the District. I haven’t for many years, now. Do you like it?’

I sigh. It reminds me of a house I saw on this renovation show, where the owner was a carpenter, and he made the entire thing out of trees from his property. It took him ten years, but the house was so detailed, so unique. Luxury meets charm. I like it. “Well, yeah. I do. But it doesn’t scream Clay Butcher. It actually looks like it might be comfortable—shock horror. Quick get the kids into the shelter because the world must be coming to an end.’

He hums his response to my joke. The car pulls into a large garage with stone cladding, the roller doors on automation, opening before us and closing behind. “My world, perhaps—my work cannot end in the city,” he says, unclipping his belt just as his door opens, his personal assistant, Que, on the other side. “And as you so eloquently pointed out, all I am is business. Well, I rarely have anything more important than the business to prioritise.’

He steps from the car and the door closes on his shadow. It’s suddenly quiet. And even a metal sheet separating us fills me with an urgency to get out and into the same air as him.

Breathing deeply, I watch him circle around the back and open my door. He leans across me, enveloping me in that scent that is all him, and unbuckles my belt. “And now you do?” I ask as he straightens outside the car. When I step out, I come within an inch of his formidable wall of muscles.

“And now I do.” Staring down at me with undeniable affection and flickers of immense possessiveness, he entwines our fingers. Leading me through the garage, he guides me into the house. Flanking us are two of his henchmen carrying our luggage. I really wish I knew their names.

Awe arrows through me when we cross the threshold, stepping into the cavernous space adorned with polished wooden walls, floors, and exposed rafters. It reminds me of a log cabin, only on steroids. It’s wondrous.

On his haunches by the flickering fire, Henchman Jeeves places a log within the hearth. The wood below cracks. He jerks to his feet when he sees me, his face solemn, his brows drawn in as his eyes meet mine. “I’m so sorry, Fawn.”

“Miss Harlow,” Clay demands, and I feel his fingers tense around mine. Not a twitch of restraint. Dead still.

“No.” I squeeze his fingers between mine. “Fawn. Fawn is fine. I can choose what people call me.”

Clay darts his eyes between us while Henchman Jeeves seems to shrink a few feet. I think I’m taller than him now. Clay’s gauging gaze levels the situation, the disapproval ripe on his chiselled face. Then he drops his attention to my lower abdomen. His jaw pulses. “No, you can’t. But I’ll allow it when you’re alone.”

Unlacing our fingers, he moves towards the kitchen. His signature nod directs my gaze to a golden-haired lady rolling dough on the wooden countertop. “This is Julia. She will make you anything you wish to eat…” He pauses and turns that tall, powerful physique to face me. “Even cake, little deer. Anything you want.”

“Fuck.” I half-smile. “If I’d known the baby was keeping cake from me, I would have…” I trail off. The joke burns my tongue. My smile slips. “Too soon.”

Glowing eyes the colour of the ocean on a bright still day soften on my face, and although they are no less commanding, they’re filled with deep sentiment. “Humour is how you deflect, but it’s just as revealing as if you were to cry. I see you, sweet girl. Whatever you need to say or feel will not be judged. By anyone… if they wish to keep all their fingers.”

My heart grows as his words inflate it with that hopefulness I fear. But I don’t want to take a pin to my ballooned heart today. I think I’ll let it float—full of him—for a while. “Was that you deflecting your affections, Sir? With maiming fingers?”

“Such a sweet question. No,” he states, walking towards a wooden door with carvings of a grand Marri tree. “It was a very clear warning for my staff.”

I look at the lady leaning over the kitchen counter for the flour and then to Henchman Jeeves as he stacks wood. They are both going about their business. I’m not at all surprised. I’m sure there is fear circulating this level of compliance and nonchalance; however, there is undeniably also respect.

He nods towards the open door, and I wander through, sensing his soft commanding eyes as they track my movements around the master bedroom that is finished in wood to match the rest of the house. Our clothes are hung in a walk-in style wardrobe, our shoes placed like tiny soldiers below them. A small smile tickles my lips when I see my dreamcatcher hanging from the left side post of the bed. He misses nothing… or was that Jasmine’s idea? I wonder if she knows what happened, I wonder why she hasn’t tried to reach out to me.

Still at the door, he says, “A bath is waiting for you. Take your clothes off and I’ll be in shortly.”

When he closes the door, I do as I’m told, skating my fingers along the wood as I make my way into the bathroom. In the centre is a free-standing bath with shiny claw feet.

Breathing in deep, I strip and step into the warm pool of water as steam drifts from the rippling surface and hangs in the surrounding air. Sinking down into its depths, the water rising to just over my breasts, I lean my head back on the lip and close my eyes. The warmth and buoyancy lessen the pain in my abdomen. I hum my enjoyment.

Hazing through my mind are sparring emotions, wanting to both be in awe and love but also curl up in silence until I don’t feel so raw about everything that has transpired.

The baby was Benji’s.

No butterflies at all.

I haven’t felt a single flutter since before writhing in pain on the bathroom floor. Butterflies, dead. Benji, dead. Baby, dead. “You’re a survivor,” I mutter to myself.

It is not long before I hear the wooden door rattle on the hinges as it opens, and footsteps move in that graceful, measured way that only Clay Butcher can pull off with a six-foot-five physique.

“I was going to keep him,” I say, opening my eyes and sitting up to find him pulling a chair over to the bathtub. He is still in his neat pants but has lost the tie and jacket. His shirt unbuttoned and casual, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing cords of veins, curves of muscles, and scratch marks from when I clawed him in the shower.

“I know, sweet girl.” He picks up a loofa and lathers it with soap scented like coconut before brushing it gently down my shoulders and chest.

I shake my head in confusion. “How did you know, Sir? I didn’t even know.”

“You knew.”

He’s right. I did. As he washes me, I can’t stop noticing how I used him as a scratching post and how he has more evidence of my miscarriage than even me. I reach out and grab his forearm, inspecting the gashes that would have wept with blood. He holds still, letting me look. “You look like a feral cat attacked you.”

“A sweet little deer, actually,” he says, his voice deeper, more gravely, while afflicted with fatigue. I presume he hasn’t slept for days. It’s an incredibly sexy sound; sleepy Clay Butcher. Gruff. Husky. Yummy.

“A stray deer,” I mutter, releasing his forearm.

His hand dips, breaching the warm surface, sinking to cup my abdomen. Even as tiredness moves in waves through his irises, they are no less controlled, no less attentive. “Is that self-deprecating behaviour going to return?” he says. “I thought we were making progress. Do you need a repeat of what I did in the car?”

His hoarse tone, wrapped in sleepy huskiness, reaches deep inside me. I think about the sting as he spanked me. Shook my body. Sent waves of sensation to my already beating clit. Then I remember the way I felt in the wake of that moment. The subtle burn. A feeling of safety. Accountability. The way I trusted him that little bit more… “Do you think I need it, Sir?”

He strokes my empty abdomen as though his tenderness can fix the hollowing of my womb. “Perhaps. Are you cramping?”

“It feels better in the water.”

He lowers his hands and massages my thighs, deep tissue pressure that loosens and comforts. He’s strong, dominant in the way he touches me, but in no way rough or overstimulating.

My eyes bat close, and I melt beneath the meticulous hands of the most intense, dangerous, and beautiful man I have ever met.

While his hands slowly work around my entire body, he talks to me. “When I say you belong to me and that I will take care of you, this is what I mean. You are not a stray. You are owned. I warned you once to tell me to stop. I warned you what it meant to belong to me… True, I didn’t plan on keeping you then. I do now. There will be times when you hate me. For what I have to do. I am sure of it. That will change nothing between us. I want you to know that if you try to leave, I will hunt you down. I want you to find comfort in the fact that you have no choice. You are mine. Because ever since I laid eyes on you, sweet girl, that is the only place they have wanted to be.”

I look at him. Moaning as he palms my breasts gently, I feel my nipples pebbling against his palm. “You will hunt me down, Sir? Why would I want to leave?”

“I am a sinful man.”

“A dangerous man,” I agree, pridefully, without a hint of care for the rest of the world because what did they care for me or Benji? No one cared. The system left me with a foster mother who made me feel worthless. The police didn’t care enough to investigate Benji’s death, to find the recording I now know existed. It must be intoxicating not being the victim. I swallow hard. “I wish I was a dangerous person.”

A grin coasts across his lips. “My affections for you make you the most dangerous girl in the country,” he states seriously, and I exhale, a flitter of contentment moving into my chest, finding comfort in his darkness. It is potent, that flitter, spreading out like stems, curling into each cell.

I remember my mother talking about reincarnation. About how we turn into a vibrant, uninhibited butterfly after this harsh existence as a weak, humble caterpillar. I pretended my mother was a butterfly the day she shot herself.

But I don’t want to wait until I am dead to experience my own reincarnation. I want it right now. In a cocoon of Clay Butcher. I hope that in my second life, I am a monarch butterfly.

They are graceful.

Beautiful.

And poisonous.

I CURL IN, clutching at my lower abdomen as it cramps in an intense droning rhythm. Clay isn’t behind me on the bed, but my body screams that his proximity is close. And he is watchful.

I squint at the corner of the room, where a shadow of a man sits, eerily motionless and stiff.

‘Are you watching me sleep?’ I ask, my voice twisted.

He lets out a rough sigh. ‘I can’t not… watch you.’

‘Clay,’ I say his name and it feels right in this moment, because the tormented heat rushes from him is smouldering—concentrated. He needs something. I don’t know what. I doubt he’ll let me be the person who comforts him—if there is such a position in his life… but I want to try. I blink at the formidable shadow in the corner. ‘The doctor said there was—’

‘I don’t need your reassurances, sweet girl. You fell from the bed writhing in pain.’

I force a small smile. ‘Can’t fall off the floor.’

He continues, unamused. ‘You managed to crawl halfway across the carpet before I woke to take you into my arms. I—’ He pauses, and the silence that follows feels thick and ominous. ‘I sleep too contently when you are in my bed. Too comfortable. I should have never let this happen.’

‘You’re not God—’ A moan leaves me, and he immediately rises from his seat, moving to the bedside. The mattress dips, rolling my body towards him.

Clay collects me in his arms, cradling me as he sits to rest his spine on the headboard. I snuggle into his large embrace, surrounded by him, enveloped in his long, muscular arms.

He opens his legs, and I slip sideways between his solid thighs, my legs a pyramid over him, my back supported by a thick, powerful bicep. My head flops to the side, meeting his chest, relaxing as I feel the sturdy, commanding drum within. The arm I am resting on hooks around my waist, sliding across my quivering abdomen and down to the seam of my underwear. I catch his wrist, and I feel the rumble of his growl.

“Little deer, that is the second time you have stopped me from touching you where I want. I tolerated the first. I’ll take you over my knees this time as soon as you’re feeling better.’

I blink up at him, meeting his endless blue eyes. “I have a pad on. It’s covered in blood.”

“And you think I somehow forgot such a thing?”

I release his hand, and he continues its descent. He grips the thin strap on the side of my knickers, and I shuffle in his lap so he can slide them up over my knees with the pad still stuck to the inner lining. I kick them off quickly, wanting to get the sight away from him, away from me. God… this man.

He settles my backside on the mattress between his thighs, opening my knees wide. I let my legs fall apart, provoking a satisfied groan to leave his lips at my submission.

My embarrassment lights a furnace below my cheeks, yet I hide it well, nestling into his chest. His fingers trace my lips, and I’m so sensitive there I begin to mewl.

I peer up and watch his heated gaze follow the exploration of his fingers. When he strokes the smooth skin, he says, “Who did this?”

I look down at his fingers. “Did what? Shave?” A nervous sound leaves my throat, a chuckle waving into a scoff. “I did it. I do it. I always—” I clear my throat. “I’ve always shaved ever since I went through puberty.”

“What colour is your hair?”

I swallow thickly. “Blonde. Light.”

“I’d like to see it. Leave it for me, and I’ll shave you from now on, the way I like.” He hums, deep and husky. “You’re just as beautiful here when you’re bleeding as any other time. Do you think your blood makes you less appealing? It is very feminine.” His breath becomes deeper, carrying a groan. I feel his cock like a steel rod under my thigh. “I’m hard just thinking about sinking my cock inside you.”

His forefinger parts my lips, sliding inside me easily within the slick of blood, while his thumb creates little circles around the bud above. I whimper my enjoyment and flush with the unavoidable awkwardness this act brings.

“Don’t be embarrassed,” he says, his voice strained. I recognise that twisted cadence. It’s the same sound he made when he said it hurts being near me and not inside me. It’s arousal. “I’ve had a lot of blood on my hands, but never in such a way. Your orgasm will help with the cramps, sweet girl.”

I roll my head on his chest as he worships my inner muscles with thorough, deep thrusts. Massaging the sensitive walls just as he did my body in the bathtub, he adds another finger to better increase the pressure. “That’s my good girl. Your pussy sucks my fingers in so beautifully.”

I tilt my pelvis to join his motion, and he groans, kissing a trail down my forehead until he meets my eager lips. Cupping the side of his neck, the taut muscles cording beneath my palms, I open my mouth for him, taking his tongue inside me as it mimics the thorough rhythm of his fingers.

Our moans and groans spiral together in a combined symphony. Our bodies work together. Mine, lifting to meet his penetration. His, kneading the aching walls, loosening the muscle inside me, ebbing the contracting.

I love you.

I become breathless in his slow but boundless kiss, in the twisting and scooping of his fingers, in the dull throbbing at my womb. It all heightens the pleasure he is building through me, and I can’t decipher one sensation over the next, but it all feels good. So good.

“I want to fuck you, little deer.” His hot breath blankets my face as he groans into our kiss. “But you’re too sore. Your pussy won’t be able to take me after what you have been through.” Not stopping his repetitive motion between my thighs, he threads his other hand down to release his cock from his pants. “Would my sweet girl like to see me come?” He hisses into our kiss, his mouth becoming clumsy for a moment as he jerks himself off.

“Yes. Yes.”

Then the sharp pull of desire drags me over the edge. I squeeze his neck. My back suddenly seizes and arches with a roll of warmth that continues forever, spreading up to my heart, causing it to gallop within me, all the way to my toes, tensing them into balls.

“Clay!” I scream his name. Clay. Clay. Clay. I take his tongue, his fingers, his everything. I’ll take it all.

He growls his own arousal out as he pumps his erection with brutal force, fisting it and drawing upwards until he shoots hot fluid over my legs. Convulsing beside me, his fist creating friction against my thigh, the liquid slapping my skin, he works his cock until he is empty.

Still holding his neck, I deepen our kiss as he breathes gruffly into my mouth. I tremble with sensation while his muscles slowly relax, but both our bodies melt together.

When he breaks the sultry dance of our lips, he leans his forehead into my hair, and it’s so vulnerable that for a moment, I want to scream, ‘I love you!’ For an endless moment, I want to whisper, ‘I understand I belong to you. You won’t be discarding me. You won’t let me go. You’ll hunt me down. I agree. I agree to it, Sir. I’m yours.”

He lifts his head, his eyes hooded with ecstasy. Licking my kiss from his lips, he looks down as he pulls his hand from between my legs, his fingers and knuckles covered in pink juices and thick red fluid, and I don’t care.

He cares even less.

After he has cleaned me up, we lay down in bed together, and I clutch onto him. As my mind rolls, delirious on a cocktail of everything him, I murmur softly, “I love you, Clay.”