Hers To Belong To

By JM Blake

Love found, and love lost...

Ayden and Cassidy were fated for a fairytale- until a sudden and shocking tragedy tore them apart. Choosing to protect what matters the most, they separate in the most painful of ways-hoping to forget each other and

• Language: English
• Publisher: JM Blake
• Release date: Jan 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9798869315038

JM Blake

JM Blake has a few thoughts about life:-Wine and coffee are a must, daily-I talk through every movie and TV show- you have to get used to it if you want to be my friend-Cats beat dogs, hands down-Nerds run the world-Nothing beats a good sex scene -Chocolate is the food of the gods-"The Talisman" is history's most perfect bookChat me up: Instagram: @authorjmblakeTwitter: @authorjmblakeBookBub: JM_BlakeBook+Main: JM BlakeGoodReads: JM Blake Website: www.authorjmblake.com

Book preview

Part One

Love Lost

‘Another summer day

Has come and gone away, In Paris and Rome

But I wanna go home’

—Michael Bublé

Chapter 1

Before

Bash

So to recap: Dr. Masters has a genius intellect, enough money to support herself, a large number of connections, and was toting a toddler. She was also nine months pregnant at the time of her disappearance. Am I correct?

When I carried Ayden out of his office, the first thing I did was to call Nicholas Grant, who has been sitting by the phone waiting to be needed since the accident occurred. Not only was he on a plane immediately, he dialed up Rowan Stande, a shadowy ex-government type he’d hired to find his ‘runway baby mama.’ Of course, they never did, and she managed to outsmart them, but that’s neither here nor there. Stande is an imposing fellow, tall and strong with sharp grey eyes. I’m sure the ladies love him.

Yes, that’s correct. Ayden is pacing in front of the giant fireplace in DelBarrow House’s library. I refused to let him hide out in his flat, forcing him to return to his natural home. Mrs. Manning was more than happy to set up shop and is in her element feeding and taking care of the five of us.

Does she speak any other languages? Nick is sprawled in an armchair, a large mug of coffee in hand. His wild mess of curly hair is pulled into a bun, lean legs stretched out. He arrived this morning with Stande and his computer aide— a gangly, geeky fellow over-awed with everything around him.

Ayden looks at me, and I smile. Yes. She speaks French, German, Japanese as well as Portuguese. She can get by in Italian as well.

Ugh. Ok.

"Well, that’s unfortunate but helpful. I think what we need to concentrate on is how Dr. Master traveled. At that advanced state of pregnancy, she would be unable to fly. So she would have to have taken a train or car. Perhaps boat. Let’s start with that. Mathis?" Rowan gestures to the geek, who starts typing like a demon.

Ok, can you please spell out her name and any nicknames she may go by? I fill him in as well as give him her sister’s names. Stande calls and immediately sets up surveillance on Gem and Brin, though privately, I think this is worthless. There is no way she would’ve gone back to San Francisco on such short notice. Her house was owned by Berkeley and had already been assigned to a new professor.

Why is that unfortunate? I’m curious.

Well, in the case of Mrs. Grant, we knew that her mono-lingual status meant that she would be more likely to hide in a country that primarily spoke in English. With Dr. Masters, we have the opposite; she could be anywhere and feel comfortable. Though as a single, pregnant woman, she would want somewhere with advanced medical capabilities. That could be anywhere in the EU.

And you have no other information? Nothing she left behind? Nick sits forward, bracing his arms on his knees.

No. She completely cleaned out her office before she left. There isn’t so much as a paper clip left behind. Ayden runs his hand through his hair, arm flopping to the side in exasperation. His desperation is palpable.

Damn these smart women. Did I tell you that MacKenna had surveillance video wiped when she ran off with my kid? If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she worked with Rowan in the CIA. His voice is annoyed, but the love and pride he has for his wife are apparent. Guess we couldn’t fall in love with anyone less crafty, could we?

Stande snorts. All women are crafty. Trust me.

An idea pops into my head. Ayden, have you checked the safe?

What safe?

Splendid. So I’ve got a safe and no combination. His disgust is obvious, and I chuckle, as does Nicholas. Ayden had this installed shortly after Cassidy found out about Baby Number Two.

Well, let’s be smart about this. You would have made the code something easy to remember; no pun intended, Ayden glares at Nick, So let’s try the obvious ones. What’s your birthday?

I punch in the date and hear three negative beeps. Let’s try mine. More beeps. Kian?

Nothing.

Mum?

Grandpa?

Thomas?

We try every one. Mathis uses some program that allows us to use combinations of all the numbers we can think of. None of them work. We test the date that DevCo was founded, the date he first met Cassidy, the date he found out about Kian, but still nothing. Stande is about to call a safecracker (a what?) when Ayden stops his maniacal pacing and pulls something out of his pocket. He stares at it for a moment before flipping it around. Try this one.

Nick punches the numbers in, and instead of that ghastly beeping, a cheerful chime sounds. Bingo. I hear him whisper.

What is it? I stare at the paper.

It’s the baby’s due date. He tucks what I now see is a scan picture back into his pocket. He starts pulling things out of the safe, and we all stand to go through them. There are the usual documents as well as copies of the entailment and Ayden’s will. Stande finds copies of Cassidy and Kian’s American passports and hands them to Mathis, who promptly starts typing again. We are almost finished when Stande pulls out something wrapped in a pale blue ribbon. I peek over his shoulder but don’t recognize the language. What’s that? Can you read it?

Rowan is frozen as he unfurls the pages. Yes, I can read it. It’s in Greek.

You speak Greek? What does it say? Nick is frowning, as is Ayden.

It’s a marriage certificate. We aren’t just looking for your children, Lord St. Devane— we are looking for your wife.

My wife?

Holy shit, you’re married?

You wanker! You never said a word!

Yes. Mathis, I think we need to refine our search. Lady St. Devane is crafty indeed.

Chapter 2

Cassidy

Sundays are supposed to be our day.

I mean, every day is our day, but Sundays are our special day. Kian is out at soccer (football, whatever) practice, and he spends the afternoon with his friend Enzo and his family. Enzo’s mom Leá, is a sweet, chic Parisian woman, and she is thrilled that her rambunctious son has a pal who can keep up with his supernatural energy. Lea lets them run around and get dirty before she drops my son off, filthy and exhilarated.

We stay home and shake our booties to loud music, eat a ridiculous amount of unhealthy foods, and veg out in baggy t-shirts and PJ pants. (I wear the pants- my kid, the exhibitionist, wears the T-shirt with underwear.) Sometimes we venture out to museums and parks; or to a little cafe near our house where the besotted owner showers us with hot chocolate and croissants. When Kian comes home, we are in a caloric coma, and he joins us on the couch for snuggles and stories. He eats his weight in food and regales us with his soccer (football) exploits, his serious little face shining with excitement. We might watch an American show from Netflix, both kids squabble over the choice or take turns reading a book out loud (currently Percy Jackson), but usually they take a bath and then fall into a deep sleep, ready to tackle the world in the morning.

So that’s regularly how Sundays roll. After an epic cooking session, I’m wiping down the kitchen when there is a knock on the door. I glance at the clock and frown. It’s about two hours too early for Kian to be home, and my anxious mama heart jumps at the thought that something must be wrong.

Stay here. I point at the floor to my little gremlin, who is too busy chewing to have heard the front door. I get an absent nod and push through the double doors to the foyer. This time, the knock comes again a little harder and a little slower. I frown still and engage the security lever before turning the knob. Lea? There is no answer but another knock. This is a safe neighborhood, and most of my neighbors are scholars or associated with the Université a mile away. I hear a faint murmur of my name, but the steady rain dilutes the sound.

Lea? I pull the door open, and the lever gives me about six inches of space. I glance to the right and don’t see anyone, but before I can look the other way, a large hand braces against the door near my face. I let out a startled squeak and looked up at the shadow, squinting. I see a tall frame, slim and strong, with a thick beard covering his face. Curly disheveled hair, damp and dripping from the rain, covers his forehead, water running down his straight nose. If I didn’t know better, I would think it was Ayden, but that couldn’t be because Ayden is back in London and has no clue where I am.

Cassidy?

Wanna hear something funny? This guy even sounds like Ayden. That smooth, deep, raspy voice—like a purr is behind every word. I laugh a little and rub my stomach. Maybe I’m in some sort of grease delusion. That’s gotta, be it. I remember reading that a sudden cholesterol influx can cause symptoms that mimic binge drinking. So basically, I’m drunk- on fried chicken. That’s definitely what is happening. Because I know, I KNOW, that Ayden St. Devane, the man who kicked my pregnant ass to the curb, is NOT standing outside of my house looking like a vagrant/hot model/psycho. Right?

Cassidy, it’s me, Ayden.

Nope.

Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope…

I try to close the door on this very vivid lousy dream, but he wedges his knee against the wood and pushes back. Dreams are not supposed to be this strong. I try harder, but he barely budges, and I grunt in anger. We struggle like this for a few minutes before I snarl into the gap.

No. Just no. I don’t know why you are here, but you need to leave. His mouth opens, and I stick a finger in his face. Nope. Stop it. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say. I don’t know how you found me, but you need to get out of here, scram, adieu, whatever. Get out of here.

Cassidy, let me explain-

Do you have your memory back? I stop him short. I get a decent look at his face through the limited space and light. His sharp cheekbones are covered in that beard, and his hair is longer than I’ve ever seen. His kissable lips are a tiny bit chapped, and I can faintly see dark circles under those amber eyes. He looks tired and sad- but who cares? Right?

No, I…no. I still don’t remember anything. Can I come in? The rain is getting bad out here.

Can he come in? Hell no, he can’t come in! I don’t care if he drowns right here on Rue de Botanique.

No, you can’t come in! Are you crazy? You need to leave, Ayden. Immediately. I shove against the door again, but his knee is still in the way.

I’m not going anywhere, Cassidy. I will stay out here all night if I have to. What will your neighbors think? I glare at him and snort.

They will feel sorry for the poor American mama and call the damn police. This isn’t England; you don’t have any power here. They will cart your butt right to jail, and I will help them throw away the key. Now go away. I shove again.

I have a large chateau right outside of the city, and I hold two French titles. I absolutely have power here, and I am not afraid to use it. Especially when I tell them I am desperate to see my children and their ‘poor American mama’ is stopping me— who do you think they will side with?

You arrogant assface! Don’t you dare bring my children into this! You threw us away like yesterday’s trash, and you dare to show up here after two years? Two fucking years? And for what? What do you want? Fuck, I am close to tears, and I don’t want him to know it. I turn my face away and rub at the sting in my eyes. I want you to leave. Why don’t you just forget about us? Go on with your life, and pretend that we never existed.

Because I can’t forget about you. I can barely stand the sight of myself. Don’t you understand? I woke up with a whole life that I couldn’t remember, and everyone was pressuring me just to accept it—even you. No one stopped to consider that you were a stranger to me; Kian was a stranger to me. My son…I had no memories of my baby. Everyone behaved like that was not a concern, but it was to me. I couldn’t remember a gigantic portion of my life, but no one was willing to give me time to adjust. So I took the time. And yes, I realize that I was cruel to you, evil even. What kind of man throws away a woman that everyone tells him that he loves with all of his heart? A woman who is not only the mother of his child but is also about to give him another one? That’s not who I remember being, but it was who I was at the time. I don’t blame you at all for hating me, but please. I need to see my children.

My heart is beating a thousand miles a minute in my chest. No.

My voice may be shaky, and maybe tears are threatening to drown my throat, but I am standing firm. I won’t allow you just to show up, disrupt their lives, and then leave. Do you know what that does to a child? I do. I will not allow anyone to hurt my kids—especially not you. I look him in the eye and can see the utter desperation in his face. My stomach contracts in pain, and I swallow hard.

"I’m sorry that everything was so hard for you. Truly I am. I knew you were struggling, and I did everything I could to help you. I tried to intervene with your family; I consulted the top TBI experts in the field, I researched the best therapy- I tried. Even when you yelled at me, even when you insulted me, even when you ignored my son, I tried. And it still wasn’t enough. So when you told me to ‘get out of your sight,’ I did. I spent two years trying to wash