Seizing Control: Redemption - Embroidery Cover - Ebook

Caught between the desires of my first love and the possibility of a second chance with my husband, I’ve demanded time and space to think.  

Six months to find my feet as a mother of three before I’m forced to face the fact that I’m in love with two living and breathing men.  

Best friends for a lifetime recently turned rivals.  

One who faked being dead.  

One who embraces death as his due.  

Their lies and secrets have put me in the middle of them, and a grace period to adjust to the truth is sorely needed. 

The danger we face means I can’t have the space I need, so I double down on my request for time. We exist in the same home. Dote on our children together. Dance around the lust growing between us as I find healing in my new life. 

Little do they know, but I’m teetering on the edge. 

I want them. 

Together. 

They want me. 

Separately. 

In the midst of duplicity and rekindling, will we find peace… or are we destined to spend the rest of our lives at war with our hearts? 

• BDSM elements 
• Drug use 
• Profanity 
• Violence 
• Emotional manipulation 
• Torture (on page, descriptive) 
• Non-consensual sex (under coersion)  
• Love triangle (readers may feel some events constitute cheating) 
• Dub-con (under coersion)  
• Attempted suicide of a main character 
• Pregnancy and birth complications 
• Infertility 
• Mentions of Abortion 
• Body Dysmorphia 
• Mental illness 
• Intellectual disability 
• Menage (MFM) 

Chapter One 

Slash  

Six years later 

Pacing back and forth in the hospital room, I crush my phone in my hand. I know that I need to make the call, that I need to let Lazarus know what’s happened to his Lily, but I can’t bring myself to do it. My wife’s current condition remains unknown. The babies cut out of her body in the operating theatre were rushed away before I could see them. Nadia currently stands guard over them like their personal avenging angel. She’s made it clear, as has Cherub’s decision to name her best friend as her next of kin rather than me, that I am not welcome anywhere near them until my duchess gives me permission.  

With the babies’ emergency arrival, I’m a father of three.  

Babies.  

Plural.  

Twins.  

As in two children.  

I had no idea Cherub was carrying twins.  

Because I am a fucking failure...   

“We need to get you cleaned up.”  

The censure that has coated every word Mumma has spoken to me since I arrived back home a week ago, emaciated and half-dead, needing Hunter’s help to walk is gone. She’s pale. Tired. Pushed to breaking point by life and me. Her too-stubborn son. With worry and fear etched in her face, my mother’s aged a decade in the past two hours.  

I know how she feels.  

Life keeps on delivering uppercuts without allowing any of us time to heal from them.  

I thought I was over the worst.  

Cherub had signed the divorce papers.  

My tech officer was in the process of removing me from my son’s birth certificate.  

Everything was planned out. My exit from their lives. Lazarus’ implementation as my replacement. The plan to throw myself at the Trinity’s mercy in exchange for clemency for my wife and her children was scheduled. All I had to do was make through another two days without breaking, and everyone would be safe.  

Per usual, I failed.  

Spying the pain in Cherub’s eyes at dinner broke me.  

Her need to protect us all was driving her to risk her health.  

I’d tried to hold out, to ignore the urge to follow her upstairs.  

My resolve had lasted for fifteen minutes before I gave in.  

Instead of offering her comfort, I’d made things worse. Taken out my frustrations on the woman I love, then walked away—for the umpteenth time. She deserved better than to collapse in my arms, yet here we are. I’m still her legal husband while the man she needs continues to loiter in the darkness as he works hard to secure the world for his little family.  

The family that should’ve been mine.  

“Let me take that bag from you,” Dad’s tone is gruff when he holds his hand out to me. I look down to find his focus locked on the clear plastic sack that I’m clutching to my bloodstained chest. It’s filled with my duchess’ belongings, clothes that were cut from her body and the jewels she wears. “You’re covered in blood, son... let me get you cleaned up, like your mumma said.”  

A lump wedges in my throat as I take in the damp scrubs I’m wearing. The top is plastered to my torso while the pants have handprints on them. On the floor next to me is me is another clear plastic bag. This one contains the clothing my wife bled over as I held her through the first stage of her ordeal. From the garden, through the house to my Rover, during the crazy drive to the hospital with Toker at the wheel, and inside the ED. For only God knows how many minutes, my duchess remained unconscious and bleeding.  

She’s missed the birth of all three of her children.  

The worst part is this was her sole opportunity to witness the miracle of life up-close.  

I made the decision that stripped her of the chance to carry another baby.  

And I’d do it again without hesitation because it saved her life.   

My hands are tacky to the touch when I relinquish the bag and my phone to my father. Once I’m no longer have them to occupy my fingers, a sense of urgency overtakes me. The need to remove the signs of my wife’s dance with death from my body sends me spiralling as I rip the flimsy blue shirt down the middle and tear it from my chest. I trip over the pants when they get caught on my paper-covered boots. Sent stumbling, the only reason I avoid face-planting on the linoleum floor is Dad’s strong grip on my shoulders.  

“Sit down, son.”  

His concern is my undoing.  

I fold like a deckchair. 

My arse hits the floor. I huddle into a ball, wrapping my arms around my calves with my thighs pulled hard to my chest. Mumma stoops low in front of me, her fingers making quick work of my laces before she pulls off my boots. Like she used to whenever I vomited over myself as a kid, she taps my knee, then tugs my scrubs off with efficient movements once I’ve straightened my limb, one leg at a time.  

Clad in only my bloodied boxers, I watch my mother stuff the bloody clothes into an empty rubbish bag. On her other side is a satchel. It’s stuffed full, a magic rucksack filled with a change of clothes. Item by item, Mumma extracts a new outfit for me. After accepting my cut from her, my father runs his hand over the unbandaged side of my head, then he pats my shoulder.  

Dad disappears into the attached bathroom.  

Water starts running.   

“Lukewarm only, Chris. Damp paper towel. No soap. You don’t wanna make it congeal,” Mumma advises him. With a satisfied nod, she directs her attention back to me. “You have to get up, Carter. Be strong. Face the mistakes you’ve made and start settin’ things right.”  

“I can’t.”  

“Pfft.” Her empathy evaporates, her palm connecting with my cheek a second later. Numb to the core, I don’t register to the sting radiating through my face until she strikes me a second time. “I raised yer to be a better man than ’tis—so ye either start doin’ what needs ta be done or ye get gone.” Mumma clicks her fingers to emphasise the final two words. When I only stare at her blankly, her noisy exhale is filled with frustration and heartbreak. “I’ve already lost one son, I won’t sit idly by while I lose another.”  

It’s a low blow.  

To remind me of my dead brother.  

The one the baby Bebe forced into my life is named after.  

Still, it’s no less than what I deserve.  

“Aye, quit the pity party,” Mumma bites out. Her eyes flash as she glares at me. The scar across her cheek deepens when her expression grows sterner. “Yer sins are no greater than anyone else’s. Yer losses ain’t superior neither. The quicker ye get that through yer head, tha better.”  

The home truth has been a long-time coming.  

That doesn’t make it any easier to swallow.  

I tried to kill myself.  

Literally held a gun to my head and pulled the trigger.  

If I hadn’t been drunker than drunk, I would’ve been successful.  

Whether I like it or not, I’ve been given a second chance at life.  

The time has come to make it count... one way or another.  

Rather than responding verbally, I give my mother what she wants. My compliance. I scoop the torn material from the floor, push back to my feet, and stomp into the bathroom. The sight of my dad hunched over the small sink, scrubbing Cherub’s blood from my cut, hits hard. In an instant, I’ve overcome by a flashback to her losing consciousness in the garden.  

It was akin to a car crash.  

She was the one in trouble, yet my life flashed in front of my eyes. My half-arsed plea could’ve been the final thing I ever said to her. I have no idea why she was even outside—I only followed her because Nadia had made it clear throughout the day that Cherub was dealing with cramps and pain. I was reeling with guilt over my behaviour upstairs. When my wife had headed outside, with misery on her face, and her delicate stride hitched and lopsided, I’d trailed her like the lovelorn loser Toker has accused me of being, more than once, throughout the past week and a half. Just in time to watch my world collapse seconds after she agreed to give me another shot.  

I caught my duchess before she hit the ground.  

Carried her inside. 

Blood dripping the entire way.  

The rush to get Cherub to the hospital was chaotic.  

Minutes of mayhem in the ED. The diagnosis of placental abruption requiring an emergency caesarean. I was lucky enough to attend the twins’ birth, although I was unable to hold them before they were rushed to the NICU. As the surgical team struggled to stop my wife haemorrhaging, I was summarily evicted from the OR. Wearing bloodstained scrubs, a hair net that resembled a flimsy shower cap, and covers over my boots, my final glimpse of Cherub was through the heavy double doors before they swung shut and blocked her from my view.   

“Slash.” My father curls his fingers over my shoulders and lightly shakes me. “Your brothers have brought reinforcements. You needa get dressed and start organisin’ things.”  

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that security is Toker’s responsibility.  

I stop myself.  

In the same way that it’s time to start living again, it’s also time to stand up as president.  

The myriad ways I’ve fucked up are piled too high to count. Languishing in my guilt and failure has proven useless. I must take the steps to fix the things I’ve allowed to fall by the wayside. Solutions were once my forte. I’m not sure when that changed.  

If I’m honest, my world was rattled when Venom died.  

Then, it was pitched on its head when he returned as Lazarus.  

My rival for Cherub’s heart is gaining a reputation in the underworld. His moniker stalks me at every turn—highlighting my failings as we rush toward an inevitable showdown over my wife’s heart. The conflict between us is of my making. Where Lazarus has offered a truce, I’ve given him nothing in return. He saved my life. I threw that back in his face. My pride is dented. The Saviour complex I once cultivated has turned into a poisoned chalice. It’s a millstone around my neck, goading me with my shortcomings at the same time as Lazarus is making his mark.   

A clear path has been driven through the circle of soldiers surrounding the Maddison clan’s new boss, Seamus St. James, all the way to his now-deceased youngest son. You don’t need to be a math genius capable of calculating odds down to four decimal places in your head to know that the next target will be Hugh. The bodies are piling up. My club is taking the blame. Whenever the Australasian guild of the Trinity demands answers from us, I’m able to denounce our involvement without lying.  

Because Lazarus has a list and he’s working through it without my input...  

In the middle of that, he found time to save me from my demons and suggest we pull together. I want to meet him halfway. To put my wife’s happiness first. But I didn’t believe that I was capable of it. Facing Cherub is impossible. My failings are too numerous to list. The things I’ve done to her are despicable. I’d kill anyone else for the same crimes, yet my best friend thinks she’ll forgive me if I ask her.  

Man up, admit my mistakes, make amends... 

Life is only that easy when you walk through it with impunity like he does.  

I’m not cut from the same cloth.  

Lazarus died to save her.  

I tried to kill myself to avoid loving her.  

“Son,” Dad urges me a second time. “You needa get dressed.”  

On shaky legs, I do as I’m told. Once my fresh jeans are buttoned, I accept my clean and dry cut from Dad and slide it over my shoulders. Following him out into the hospital room we’ve been told to wait inside, I work hard to keep my breathing from giving away my panic. Game face in place, shoulders back, I do my best to hide my distress over Cherub’s condition as I begin to mentally catalogue the men we’ll need to adequately secure the hospital, my wife’s room, and the NICU.  

Before I can open my mouth, I’m met with a fist to the face. My head snaps back. A flare of pain sears through my chin and into my cheekbone, then clanging erupts in my ears. As I fight to stay conscious, a pair of multicoloured eyes glare at me. A second impact splits my already damaged cheekbone open again.  

This time, the lights go out before I can stop them.  

When I come to, the same gaze locks with mine.  

Lazarus lifts his top lip into a snarl.  

Moves to pin me to the floor with his boot against my throat.  

Hunter’s arm curls around his neck. My younger brother drags my ex-best friend away from me before he can stomp me into a permanent sleep. I push upright, shaking my head when stars erupt behind my eyes. Blood runs down my face, the wound carved in my skull reopened by his punch. Working my jaw open and closed, I check that it’s not broken. Satisfied that I’m able to speak, I wobble back to my feet.  

“Thought we were gonna pull together.”  

“Changed my mind,” he jeers. “I don’t negotiate with cowards.”  

We circle each other, too much water under the bridge to settle our rage peacefully, even in this time of crisis. I take in his perfectly tailored black suit. He sneers at the president’s patch sewn on my lapel. Round and round we go, the other people in the room silent observers to a showdown that’s been a year—a lifetime—in the making. It was temporary thwarted by my attempt to end my life and his offer of a truce, but old animosities have risen to the surface, and they can’t be ignored any longer.  

My temper sparks as I listen to his steady breathing.  

The unblinking reproach in his expression is infuriating.  

He believes that I’m a lost cause.  

No longer my wife’s hero.  

Unworthy of being his friend.  

“I heard what you said to her,” the arsehole formerly known as Venom proclaims in a tone that I know well. He might be outwardly calm, but he’s furious beneath the benign façade. I sniff, then swipe at the blood that runs down my cheek. Cocking my head to one side, I raise my eyebrows in a request for him to elaborate. “The bullshit you said to her. Your cowardice... that could’ve been one of the last things she heard.” As Lazarus crushes the front of my t-shirt in his fist, I let him shake me. His summary is right—I unleashed the worst of my weakness on my wife minutes before she haemorrhaged. “Guess you’ll be happy to learn the twins are mine. One less reason for the suicidal National president to stay alive. Two less people you’ll disappoint when you eventually take the easy way out like the pathetic prick you are.”  

Mumma gasps as Lazarus spills my secret shame for all to hear.  

Enraged by his overstep, I snarl, “Bullshit.”  

“Did the test myself.” Hunter scoffs as he moves from behind Lazarus. My brother crosses his arms over his chest and smirks. “Ain’t a drop of Hudson blood in their veins. Thank fuck.”  

“Nah...” I ignore my brother to rail on Lazarus. “That’s where you’re wrong.” It kills me to admit this out loud in front of my parents, but I forge on anyway. “I might’a lost sight of things for a minute, tried to take the easy way out like you said, but I’ve got my head on straight now. They’re all Hudsons. The twins. Cherub. Same as Garrett—”  

“The son—” Lazarus cuts me off before I can finish verbalising my claim on my wife and kids. “—you refused to acknowledge for the first three months of his life, that Garrett?”  

“Listen.” I jab Lazarus in the chest, taking out the flare of remorse that sets my gut roiling as I realise that I just said my son’s name for the first time on the man in front of me, instead of turning it inward. The arrogant prick grins wide, unperturbed by my hostility. This side of him is new, he’d normally be raging at this point. Instead, Lazarus is visibly amused by my floundering, the anger he feels banked behind a wall of control that I never suspected he possessed. “You left. I stayed. She’s my wife. Those are my kids.” Another jab. “You can head back into the shadows to keep playin’ the Adjudicator’s bitch boy… ’cause you ain’t welcome here.”  

“Well, actually—” Hunter’s interjection is interrupted by the door being opened.  

Nadia storms inside, pushing a pram. “Look what the cat dragged in... a not-so-dead somnophiliac and the least-likeliest to be voted Dad of the Year.”  

Behind her, Sander limps into the hospital room, and the remaining Mayberry brothers follow him. My prospect comes to stand with me as Wyatt’s disbelief at encountering a real-life ghost is tempered by his oath to have my back. My wife’s twin freezes, mouth open, caught between shock and horror at the sight of his resurrected lifelong friend. Cherub’s youngest brother nods to himself, offers Lazarus a fist bump that is slowly reciprocated, then he pops a piece of gum into his mouth and leans against the wall next to Hunter.  

“This is gonna be good,” Nate comments.  

My younger brother laughs at him.  

Everett’s reaction is even stranger.  

“Goddamnit.” He shakes his head as he scoffs, “Fuckin’ figured you’d come see me before anyone else.”  

“A thank you will suffice,” Lazarus tells him. “And we have a date in the near future, don’t you worry, brother.”  

“Pfft... brother. It’s too late for that.”