Page 129 of The Billionaire's Christmas Bride

Amelie’s features grow wistful and she glances from Kirsten to me. I glare at her, she bites down on her lower lip, and damn it, of course, my cock instantly notices.

I hold her gaze. She looks away, raises her glass, "A toast to Kirsten and Patrick." She smiles.

I glance over to my mother, who seems surprised. Then she surprises me, by raising her glass. "A toast." She coughs, rubs at her chest.

"You okay?" I frown.

"Never been better," she smiles, the skin stretching around her mouth. A gleam of sweat glistens on her forehead. She raises her glass in her left hand, her dominant hand, which trembles. All of my senses pop. My visions, tunnels. Even before the glass slips from her fingers, I rise, then rush over to her. I catch her as she sinks into her chair, her breathing ragged, her skin pallid.

"Liam," I snap at my brother, "call an ambulance."

He jumps to his feet so fast, his chair topples over with a crash. He pulls out his phone, walks away as he dials.

I hear the sound of Max barking. Phe begins to cry, then is hushed. More chairs being shoved back, the slap of footsteps on the floor, then Hunter and Patrick crowd me. "Move back," I snap, and they comply

"Weston," my mother whispers as I lower her to the ground. Sweat beads her upper lip, "Weston." She coughs again.

"Don’t talk," I say.

I reach for my mother's wrist to check her pulse and glimpse the steel band attached to her watch—the bloody watch that my father presented to her when they got married; the one she’d put away after the incident, when she’d found out about my trigger. Why the hell is she wearing it? My heart begins to race, the blood thundering at my temples.I stare at the watch—the hands on the face, the big hand moving fast, so fast, the small hand following pace, the countdown for my life as my kidnapper had hauled me into the small room across the corridor from where I had been imprisoned with the rest, as he’d tied me to the chair, attached the rigged clock to my chest. "Will you survive it this time? Follow the countdown, the ticking of the clock as it edges closer to the end."

He’d ripped off my blindfold—the light had cast his face in shadow so I hadn't been able to get a good look at him—then left me with only the ticking for company, and I had screamed against the gag, tried to pull free. "If you move, the bomb goes off. If you disturb the clock, it goes off. If you so much as breathe too hard…it goes off. Hell, if you so much as live…it may go off… Will you survive this round?" His voice echoes through my head.I stare at the moving hands of the watch.

"What do you think, Weston?" my kidnapper asks. "Will you live or will you die this round?"

Live or die?

Do I want to die?

What do I have to live for? Why can’t someone rescue me and put me out of my misery? If I get out of here, I’ll never allow anyone else to control my life...never. Never.

"Weston?"

Never relinquish your power. Never.

"Weston!" Something connects with my cheek. I fall back, glance up into familiar blue eyes. The eyes of an angel. The blue of the ocean, the sky. The only place where I could be safe, where I can soar above it all, away from here, away from these memories, the clocks that tick down to my demise.

"Weston." Those blue eyes blaze at me; silver sparks in their depths. Huh? "You need to help her. Snap out of your shock. Now!" She raises her palm, then slaps me again, and again.

I blink. "Amelie?"

"Thank God," she cries. She pinches my chin, turns my face to where my mother is sprawled on the floor, her hand extended. I press my thumb to her wrist.There’s no pulse.

"Mother!" I touch her shoulder. "Rosie," I call out her name but she doesn't respond.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.I tilt her head back, lift the tip of her chin and, lean in closer. Her chest doesn't move. I listen over her mouth and nose for breathing sounds, hold my cheek over her nose. Fuck, she's not breathing.

I place the heel of my left hand on the center of her chest, place the heel of the other hand on top of the first hand, interlace my fingers, My injured finger screams in protest—I ignore it. I push down with my arms and hands, using my body weight to compress her chest.

Tick-tock-tick-tock- Push-now-push-now.

My own personal song that has a rhythm that corresponds to the compressions per minute required for the rhythm.

Tick-tock-tick-tock. Push-now-push-now.

Sweat beads my brow; pain sears my arm. I reject it, continue with the momentum.

Tick-tock-tick-tock-push-now-push-now.