Yells pitch the air. But no one stops us. No one comes to his defense. I’m done going easy on him.
Because he’s family.
Because I know better.
Because I’m too strong and I should use my strength to defend.
Tony scrambles to his feet with a wince. I knock his ass back on the floor, and we’re in a brawl. Fists flying, knees in ribs, and my pulse is ringing in my ear.
Blood in my mouth, I spit to the side, and we’re on our feet. I outsize Tony, and I pin him against the wall, a framed picture of Loch Ness crashing down. This isn’t even a fair fight. I could drag him halfway around the house, and the fire in my lungs starts to die.
He’s weaker.
I don’t hurt weak things. I protect them.
He tries to head-butt me.
I fake left, then slam a fist in his gut, and he chokes out, “Outside.” He coughs. “Let’s go outside…and finish this.”
I narrow the hottest glare on him and I’m thinking, how stupid can this shitbag be? If the cold doesn’t kill him, I will.
“Scared, Banks?” He tries to slam me back. I don’t budge, and I twist his shirt more around my fist and hoist him higher up the wall.
He writhes.
“I’ll kill you,” I warn him.
Fear strikes his eyes for a fleeting second, then arrogance causes his lips to rise, and he shakes his head strongly. “I have you beat.”
My eyeballs sear, unblinking, and my chest is on fire—and if I take him up on his offer, if we go “fight it out” in frostbitten temperature and waist-deep snow, I won’t be fighting Tony.
I’ll be fighting myself. To stop from killing him, and I want to be a man that Jane deserves.
Not a killer.
My hands are soaked in blood from war, and I haven’t taken a soul since.
“For a second, I thought you were Thatcher…”
I stiffen.
“But he’d never hesitate like you.” Tony laughs into a slight cough. “Looks like we know which one has the bigger balls.”
“Fuck you,” I growl between gritted teeth.
He tries to pry my hands off his shirt. “Let’s do this.”
My neck is tensed, and I release my grip. Breathing coarse breath through my nose.
Tony slides down, and he takes one step towards the front door—and I cold-cock him. Fist to jaw, and the blow is lights out.
He thumps to the floorboards.
Unconscious.
33
BANKS MORETTI
7 Extended Days Pretending to Be Thatcher
What a fuckin’ day to have a killer migraine. I can count on my hand the number of times Xander leaves the house and greets daylight in a given week. And of course today—the day I have a blistering, thunder-fucking headache—I’m outside.
My aviators need three times the tint to combat the sun because Lord knows sunlight and I are old enemies. That billion-years-old burning ball of roid-raging fire likes to ramp up my headache by a thousand degrees.
Good thing Xander has no clue I’m in pain, or he probably would’ve insisted we return home. The last course of action I want is for that kid to change his plans for my ass.
I scratch the scuff along my jaw, grown out more than usual. Gold horns rest against my black button-down, the sleeves rolled as heat radiates from an outdoor fireplace.
The patio to Easton Mulligan’s house—excuse me, mansion—is as bougie as every other landscaped backyard on this street: sheared hedges, stone-rimmed pools, lounge chairs worthy of grape-eating narcissists. Pretty sure some teenager around here has fallen into the deep-end staring at their own reflection.
Or snapping a selfie.
Easton’s mansion also includes heated patio stones. The Hale house in this same gated neighborhood doesn’t even have that. Snow soaks the grass, but the sitting area around the fireplace is dry.
Seated on the warm stone, Xander faces Easton around a glass coffee table, a board game and colorful pieces scattered between them.
But this isn’t Candy Land (unfortunately for me), it’s a three-person strategy game, and I was recruited as the “third” player.
We’re four hours in, and I’m still confused as hell.
Xander rolls the dice that has twelve sides and symbols and shit. “I’ll trade you a musket for a fire spell.” He’s looking at me.
“Sure, yeah.” I hand him a card.
“That’s a rocket flare,” Easton says.
Shit.
I shuffle through my thick deck and find another. “Here.”
Xander nods, then frowns, catching sight of another card in my hand. “Wait, you have the Empress of Tomorrow?”
“No fucking way.” Easton leans forward, elbows on the table. He’s a lanky, pale, dark-haired sixteen-year-old—no kidding, he looks like a vampire. Thing is, I bet he gets more sun and Vitamin C than Xander.
I scrunch my brows. “What’s the Empress of Tomorrow mean?”
Xander grins after a sip of Fizz. “With your position on the board and your two blocking spells, you just won the game, man.”
“Well, damn,” I say into a satisfied nod. Forget it, I fucking rock, and just then, a hammer pounds inside my temple. I bite down while Xander and Easton gather cards and game pieces.
I’d give my left testicle for a cigarette, or at least a toothpick that I’m not allowed to grind on.
‘Cause I’m Thatcher Alessio Moretti. He already fucked up, and now I’m gonna be known as the guy who stuffs lunchmeat in his jacket.
It’s kinda funny. I’ll take it. But I’d rather all of them come home. It’s December 27th. They’re a whole week late, and it’s killing more than just me.
Xander checks his cellphone, waiting for a text that says they’re back. His sixteenth birthday at Superheroes & Scones was quiet and somber without his older brother and sister there.
The parents even cancelled Christmas at the lake house this year. They wanted to stay in Philly, so they’d be here for when their children return home.
Easton slowly straightens the cards and eyes Xander. “Is everything okay?”
“Uh, yeah. Sorry.” Xander overturns his phone. He hasn’t mentioned that his older siblings and cousins are stuck in Scotland, but it’s all over the news.
So Easton knows. He’s just waiting for his friend to share with the class.
He won’t. Xander keeps personal shit vaulted about as much as every other famous one.
Awkward silence hangs as they slowly—ever so fucking slowly—shift game pieces. Unsure if the other person wants to play another round. It’s clear they both do.
I’m just a third-wheel.
I’m not supposed to nudge them. So I just lean back and watch the teenage soap opera.
Easton taps a silver wizard piece to the board. “Good game, man.”
“Yeah, definitely.” Xander crunches his soda can and flips a dice, staring at Easton, then the snow, then back to Easton. “So…?”
“You want another Fizz?” Easton rises.
“Uh, that’s okay.” He pushes his hair out of his eyes. “I mean, yeah…that’d be good. You want to play again?”
“For sure.” Easton smiles more. “I’ll be right back.” He goes to retrieve a soda, and Xander watches him in deep thought before his head whips to me.
“I suck at this.” His eyes darken. “Like literally, suck.”
My lip curves up. “You’re doing fine, kid.”
He exhales a heavy breath. “Sometimes I think it’s better for everyone if I just stayed in my room and never came out.”
“It’d be worse,” I remind him. “Everyone would be sad.”
He lets this sink in, massaging his sore knuckles from a boxing session.
When Easton returns, we play another round of the geekiest stuff I’ve ever seen. Besides LARPing.
I’d enjoy this more if my migraine weren’t about to blow a hole through my temple. During an intense battle, I slyly pop some Advil.
The pills go down rough without water. It’ll be worth it later.
Once Xander wins, they pack up the board game. And then, we get ready to shove off.
“Hey, Thatcher, thanks for being our third,” Easton tells me, reminding me I’m my brother and wearing these stupid aviators that have no tint. Spoiler alert: they’re not mine. “We’ll probably need you if we play again. Not many people appreciate nerdy shit around here.”
“Only the ‘popular’ nerdy shit,” Xander adds, and these two linger at the back gate. He awkwardly waves Easton goodbye. “Later…or whatever.” He sucks in a tight breath.
Easton stuffs his hands in his preppy khakis. “If you ever want to play again, just text me. I’m free a lot, so…”
“Yeah. Okay. Cool.” Xander nods.
Easton nods. “Cool.”
I suppress a smile and adjust my earpiece. Not interfering, but man, I feel like a proud Mother Goose who sent her little chickadee out into the world.
But you better believe I’m still a bodyguard. I hawk-eye their hand movements, not about to let Xander pass off antidepressants to this kid.
Back in Greece, Thatcher and I (along with most everyone else) found out Xander had been giving away his extra meds to Easton, and the fact that Xander had also been doing it with other kids back when he was thirteen—on our watch—still puts a rock between my ribcage.
Missed it.
Not that I can really shackle too much blame on me and my brother. Xander is a teenager. If he wants to hide something from us, he’ll find a way. I’m not a motherfucking spy. And he may trust us with serious shit, but he also knows where our trust would end. Had I seen him willfully giving his meds away to gain popularity, I would have called his parents in a heartbeat.
He knew that.
Still, I’m not missing the same thing twice, so I laser focus on their hands.
We’re all good.
They depart, and I walk on the freshly plowed road beside Xander. Constantly surveying the mansions. Christmas lights, wreaths and bows are still up. No threats in sight. Most bodyguards go off-duty in the gated neighborhood—but extra vigilance makes Xander feel safe.
And I like living life on my toes.
Semper Gumby.
“He’s pretty cool, right?” Xander asks, popping a Sprite.
I stare straight ahead. “He’s only cool when he’s not taking your meds.”
Xander sighs. “How long are you and Thatcher going to give me shit for that?”
“Until we forget it happened.”
Xander mumbles something about that being never.
Static from SFE comms is in my ear, and I pick up a couple bodyguards discussing New Year’s Eve plans. My muscles tense, just thinking about my brother stuck in the middle of bum-fuck nowhere Scotland past January 1st.
With the weather reports I keep checking, I doubt he’ll be back before then. And the longer we keep up this charade, the more I have to lie to people like Easton. But I convinced Thatcher to swap places, and I’m chugging my share of salt.
“Moffy and Farrow will get everyone home. Thatcher will too,” Xander tells me, like I need the confidence boost. Seeing this kid dish out encouragements almost makes me smile.
“Amen.” I bounce my head. “Your big brother can do anything.” I stoke that belief that’ll keep him afloat, especially when Thatcher and I leave.
Xander begins to smile. “Yeah, he can.”
“So can you,” I add.
He lets out a short laugh into a sip of Sprite. “Sure.” He believes this more when Maximoff tells him, and I don’t blame him. I’d believe the ground was gold if my big brother said so.
Agitation festers at the thought of Skylar.
Hate-plus-love is a cruel asshole.
I stare straight and suddenly spot a limo in the distance. It’s headed this way.
“Mother of Christ,” I say under my breath, and I push my aviators up the bridge of my nose. I’m not fucked yet.
Xander must’ve heard me. “Maybe that’s not my uncle’s limo.”
“There’s only one other house in this neighborhood that has a limo, and it’s on a different street.” Ready or not, Connor Cobalt, here I am.
Because what I know: Connor won’t ignore his sixteen-year-old nephew and drive right on by. And sure enough, the limo slows.
Forcing us to stop.
Don’t talk to me, Connor. I stronghold and rattle the hope and dream like it’ll fall out of a piggybank and into my possession. Talking to Jane’s dad is a worst-case scenario and I wouldn’t be here if Thatcher and Jane hadn’t been snowed-in.
But I’d do just about anything for those two.
There’s never been a woman so good for my brother, and I’d like to think he’s good for her too. Thatcher and I—we don’t need much in life and we haven’t had much until security work. To know that the Morettis could somehow be linked to the Cobalts (the bougiest family of all three) is fucking weird and unreal.
And now that quirky, cat-obsessed Jane is my twin brother’s girlfriend—I instinctively will always look out for her like she’s my flesh and blood.
“Maybe we can run?” Xander whispers.
“No, I’m gonna handle this.” I’m not digging Xander’s grave beside me and my brother.
He nods a few times.
The window rolls completely down. “Do you want a ride?” Connor asks Xander, snow flurries beginning to sweep the brittle air.
“No, I need the exercise.” He scratches his cheek. “But thanks.”
Connor nods, then zeroes in on me. My arms are crossed, shoulders squared and features stoic. I’m Thatcher Moretti, bitch.
I’m a fucking dumbass—because I almost, almost crack a smile at my idiotic thought.
His forehead twitches slightly before his expression flat-lines. Unreadable. “You do know how a phone works?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You know how to accept a call?”
I nod. “I must’ve just missed yours. Sorry.” Don’t talk a lot.
“Will you have dinner with me and Jane’s mom tomorrow night?”
“Can’t, sir.” I stiffen. “I have plans with my grandma. She’s expecting me.” My voice sounds stilted, but what can I do? I’m not an actor or trying to win a fucking Academy Award.
I relax when I realize Connor looks understanding.
He even offers me a friendly smile. “Another time. If you can’t answer a call, I’ll text.”
“Sounds good.”
He says goodbye to Xander, and the window rolls back up. That went about as poorly as expected, and not even Xander could tell if Connor saw through me.
That’s the thing about the Cobalt Empire; they don’t show you their cards until the very end. And I just hope and dream up one more thing.
That I haven’t completely screwed Thatcher and Jane’s ending.
34
JANE COBALT
11 Days Snowed-In
A little piece of me thought that possibly, just possibly, the fistfight between my boyfriend and my bodyguard would diffuse tension, eradicate bad blood, and cause them to come together—the way that families sometimes do.
I was wrong.
They stand more divided than ever.
Tony keeps egging on my boyfriend, who he still believes is Banks. He’s been asking for a round two, even though he lost miserably the first time. And I’m proud of Thatcher for not taking the bait. Once was enough. A second physical altercation won’t heal the wound.
It is vitally clear that Tony has become an insufferable disease-ridden sore in Mackintosh House. His only redeeming quality is that he’s not a terrible bodyguard.
But the longer we’re all trapped here with him, the less “bodyguard duties” he has and the more his ugly personality shows.
New Year’s Eve should be a celebratory occasion with glitz and glam, but Tony has soul-sucked the house. And serious matters are still at the forefront.
Like the freezing
cold and the depletion of certain supplies. Which has brought us to an Emergency House Meeting and split the living room: Omega on one side, Epsilon on the other, and my family strewn in between.
Jack Highland and surprisingly Will Rochester have chosen to sit with my family.
I clap my hands together. “Thank you all for coming to this meeting. We appreciate having your undivided attention.”
4 girls to 13 guys.
The ratio is very apparent as I stand with Sullivan, Luna, and Joana near the fireplace hearth. We take center stage and capture the attention of all thirteen men. Most of them seem readied—despite not knowing the issues we’re about to drudge up—but I suppose that’s what happens when you face a room full of bodyguards.
They’re prepared for anything.
But I highly doubt they’ve guessed this.
I take a breath, and my gaze drifts to the back wall. Where Thatcher stands stoically next to an old record player. Arms crossed, he nods me on encouragingly, even though he’s in the dark like the other men.
More breath fills my lungs, and I continue on with a rising smile, “As you all know, there are some things that the four of us experience that none of you do.”
Bodyguards shift, realization striking some.
“This meeting is about menstruation,” I announce.
Silence.
Dead.
Utter. Silence.
Concern is the prominent emotion from Omega’s corner. From Maximoff and my brothers as well.
Epsilon’s side is another story. O’Malley is leaning back in a rocking chair and suddenly enamored with the ceiling. And Tony looks far too amused.
Joana threads her arms. “Menstruation is a period.”
“Shark week,” Sulli adds, drawing a grin from all the girls, and she whispers to us, “It’s what my sister and I call it.”
Oscar bows forward on the couch. “We know what menstruation is, Jo.”
She nods to her twenty-one-year-old brother. “Quinn looked confused.”
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