Nanny Bil-aries

Kathy's POV

The aftermath was pure, visceral shock. I was pinned against the cool bathroom wall, my back aching, my body humming with residual energy, and my mind screaming in chaotic disbelief.

He slowly pulled out, the heavy warmth of him tugging free, and the sensation was replaced by the uncomfortable, undeniable flood of his essence. Baxon Cavendish had followed his brother's lead with terrifying precision, staking his claim with the same reckless, fertile confidence.

I slid down the wall, sinking onto the tile floor, completely spent. My voice was gone from screaming, and my legs felt like liquid.

The stick up his ass? No. The Cavendish brothers simply employed different means to the very same end: total, exhilarating dominance. Basil used mind games and cold demand. Baxon used emotional appeal and devastating pleasure.

He knelt before me, his breathing ragged, his eyes—identical to Basil’s, yet softer, more emotionally charged—searching mine.

“God, I really can’t believe how great you are. How hot you are. How sexy you are. Where the hell did you even come from, girl?” he breathed, his voice hoarse.

I wanted to say: I came from Villa Montalvo, Baxon. I came here to find out why your mother's secrets destroyed my family. And you just gave me two reasons why I can't leave. But the words caught in my throat. I couldn't lie to him in this moment; I could only moan.

He didn't wait for an answer. Reaching down, he retrieved the towel from the floor and wrapped it gently around my shoulders. The gentleness was strange after the brutality of the encounter. Then he reached in and scooped me up with his considerable strength, carrying me easily to the newly delivered bed in my suite.

He set me down, pulled the blanket over me. The act of tucking me in, the casual, immediate domesticity following unprotected, wallslamming sex was strangely comforting.

He bent to lay one last kiss on my forehead, a non-sexual, purely affectionate gesture. “Sleep, Kathy. You deserve it.”

Then he was gone. Just like Basil. No cleaning up, no explanation, just a quick, confident exit, leaving me to sort out the utter chaos he had unleashed.

I lay there, staring at the open bathroom door. My gaze fell onto the little, white counter space where my toiletries lay scattered.

Gone was the disk-shaped package of birth control.

Baxon had taken it. He hadn't just seen it; he had confiscated the proof of my independence.

"House rules," I whispered, the absurdity of the term reverberating through the opulent space. The rule was simple: no protection. No control over my own body. The Cavendish brothers weren't just competing for my affections, but racing to get me pregnant, to tie me permanently into their dangerously secretive world.

What on earth had I gotten myself into, and why couldn't I tear myself away from it?

I closed my eyes. I was here to find the truth about the Blackwell Vault and the "green file"-a document connected to the downfall of my father, Rafael Montalvo. Now I was sharing bodily fluids with the two men who controlled that vault, and I was potentially carrying a baby who would be a Cavendish heir.

My core conflict was no longer theoretical; it was biological.

I sat up, the raw, emotional residue of Baxon's passion still heavy on me. Throwing my legs over the side of the bed, my body felt weak, but my resolve was steel. I needed the morning-after pill, and I needed it now. The job, the mission, the access—it all required a clear head, not a growing belly.

I pulled on the silk robe, disregarding how it was more than likely Basil's. I needed to get out of the Cavendish Sky Tower Residence immediately and find a discrete pharmacy.

I padded silently toward the door, my bare feet sinking into the thick carpet. Just as my hand reached the handle, my phone—the cheap burner phone I used for the mission—vibrated on the bedside table.

It wasn't from Basil, either, or from Baxon; it was an encrypted message from my contact outside, the one assisting me in Elena Cavendish de Rivas's hunt.

The message was one word, chilling and precise:

"WATCHER."

I froze, my heart hammering. I wasn't just in danger from the two reckless men who wanted to own me. Someone else knew I was here. Someone from the shadows. Someone who had been expecting me.

I clutched the phone and stared at the closed door. Going out meant facing the Cavendish Security Floor and the security chief, Chief Dalton Reyes. Staying in meant confronting a watcher in the Sky Tower.

I opened the contact list and hesitated between calling my external contact's number or calling the number Basil gave me to report about Tifania.

I chose neither. I needed an ally inside, someone who could provide cover without asking for immediate sexual favors.

I walked to the house intercom system mounted on the wall and hit the call button for the home office, where Basil was supposedly doing trades.

The line clicked open instantly.

"Basil?" I said, and my voice was steady though my hands weren't.

“I told you I was busy, Kathy.” His tone was clipped, impatient.

“I just wanted to confirm the Wi-Fi code you mentioned,” I lied, smoothly buying time. “But while I have you. I just had a thought about Tifania.

Silence. Then, a low, calculating sound.

“Go on.”

“She keeps a very large, brightly coloured drawing book in her room. And in the centre of a picture she drew today—a picture of your mother’s Rivas Regency Hotel—she drew a snake. The kind you mentioned.”

I was throwing him a bone, giving him reason to believe I was his spy. “She says the snake has eyes on the Rooftop Garden.”

His breath hitched audibly. The professional mask cracked.

“Stay put, Kathy. Don’t talk to anyone. I’m coming to your room now.”