Fearless Like Us

by Krista Ritchie

  Akara laughs. “We definitely would’ve. It’d come crashing down.”

  “I’d roll into the snow.”

  “Banks would throw you over his shoulder.”

  “And you’d take my face in your hands.”

  We’ve drawn even closer.

  “Kitsulli!”

  I check my surroundings. Oh fuck. The young teens have grown in number, gathering in a group around a fir tree and iron benches. Winter Festival banners sway in the chilly breeze near them.

  I’ve been warming myself with the spiked hot cocoa, and as anxiety rushes through me, I down the whole mug in a couple gulps.

  Akara watches me. “Sul? You okay?”

  I swallow hard and then accidentally let out a soft belch. Fuck.

  “Lady Meadows,” he says into a smile. “How very courtly of you.” He looks at me like I’m the most gorgeous thing in the garden. There is no friend zone in those eyes. I’m more to him, and I inhale strongly like I’m trying to breathe in the moment for eternity.

  And then I touch my lips, pretending to be more of a lady. “Pardon fucking me.”

  His smile widens.

  I sway a little, buzzing from the alcohol.

  His humor instantly shatters. “Sul.” He actually does reach for my hand this time. Our fingers touch and the intensity of the moment in public races my heart and quickens my breath.

  A wave of shocked gasps comes from the Kitsulli crowd.

  I flinch.

  Akara drops his hand again.

  I swallow hard as my nerves ratchet up. “Maybe we should get more hot cocoa,” I suggest with a tip of my mug. “I’m all out.”

  Akara stares at the mug for a beat too long.

  “Kits?” My stomach knots.

  His eyes flit to me, concern outlining his brown irises. “You feel okay?”

  “Totally,” I nod, hoping he can see that I can handle alcohol now. The pass-out phase is long gone. Feels like it hasn’t happened in forever. “Just warm and fuzzy. I could probably have another.” I like this floaty feeling and how the knot in my stomach untwists.

  Two mugs of spiked hot cocoa and my nerves will be obliterated. Those people pointing and staring and making the wrong assumptions about my relationship won’t be able to cross the barrier I build. That magical barrier allows me to not care about them.

  I just don’t want to fucking care.

  I want to be unbothered. Unaffected.

  Akara tilts his head to the maze of snowcapped garden hedges. “One time through and then more hot cocoa?”

  “Deal.” I follow him into the maze just as someone shouts at the top of their lungs, “XANDER, LOOK AT ME!”

  The distraction (albeit, not great for my cousin) does grant me some reprieve from the Kitsulli crowd. No one traces my footsteps into the maze.

  Our boots crunch the snow, and I slip in front of Akara and walk backwards while he follows.

  His brows rise. “I’m supposed to be in front of you, Sul.”

  “Beat me then,” I say in challenge.

  And I take off. Sprinting through the hedges. He’s fast, but I’m faster. Darting around the green hedges. His hands catch my waist but slip off. Laughter tumbles from my lips. The air is cold, and the twinkle lights dance above us.

  The alcohol drives warmth through my blood, and my head dizzies for a second. When I round a corner of white rose bushes, I trip on my own pantleg. Before I tumble face first into snow, Akara grabs me around the waist.

  His hands firm.

  His body hard.

  He pulls me back towards him.

  I’m breathless. Windblown and tidal swept. He’s the dreamboat shielding me from the rip current.

  His lips brush my ear. “Caught you.” His voice might as well light my sex drive on fucking fire. Heat bathes me in an instant.

  I tilt my head back against his shoulder to look up into his eyes without breaking from his hold. “Wild things aren’t meant to be caught,” I breathe.

  His eyes caress mine. “You’re not a thing.”

  “Then what am I?”

  “Mine,” he says. “His.” His lips hover against my ear once more. “Ours.”

  My heart beats harder in my chest.

  Kits places a hand on my collarbones in desirous affection. Longing pools between us like a raging ocean. “You’re right about one thing,” he whispers.

  “What?”

  “Wild creatures aren’t meant to be caught,” he says. “But they do choose their home.”

  My heart thumps. “Is that why we all chose each other?”

  “I’d like to think so,” Akara says with another rising smile.

  Carolers hum in the distance, and the scent of roses permeates around us. Melodic and heady, we start to sway. His hands still holding me tight to him. Mine pressed atop his.

  “Happy Birthday, Kits,” I say as I spin to face him, and after digging in my jumpsuit’s pocket (yes, it’s fucking awesome and has pockets), I hand him a tiny, wrapped gift.

  He smiles. “Let me guess.” He feels the package. “A friendship bracelet.” It’s my go-to gift for him, but he’s wrong this time.

  “Not a friendship bracelet.”

  His brows crinkle. “Feels like a friendship bracelet to me.”

  “Just open it,” I say impatiently.

  He rips the paper and shakes out the red bracelet into his palm. I strung lettered beads into the braided strings, and the beads spell, I love Sulli.

  “It’s an I love you bracelet. Totally different.”

  He laughs into a brighter smile. “It’s my favorite gift of yours.”

  “Yeah?”

  He steals a kiss on my cheek, featherlight but lasting. The heat of his lips rushes down my body. Our fingers hook again, and in his other hand, his thumb brushes over the beads. His eyes soften with a sort of sadness. “I can’t wear it yet, Sul.”

  “Oh, I know,” I breathe. “You can hang onto it. Banks is getting his in June for his birthday.” And I’m betting we last that long and longer.

  I’m not picturing a world where we end.

  “Let me guess again. His bracelet is blue.”

  “Correct this time. You’re one for two—” I’m cut off by a sudden voice.

  “This way! I think the fountain is over here!” The stranger’s shouts sound like a gunshot in the night.

  We jolt away from each other—just in fucking time. Festival attendees slip into our section of the maze.

  “Whoops, sorry.” A tall, skinny boy with an orange scarf apologizes quickly, eyes darting from Akara and me like he interrupted an intimate moment. The girl behind him giggles against his back.

  “Nothing to be sorry about,” Akara says casually. “If you’re looking for the fountain, it’s three more rights.”

  “Thanks,” the boy says before grabbing the girl’s hand and tugging her in that direction.

  Akara pushes a hand through his hair, more edged. “Sorry, Sul.”

  “No, it’s okay. At least they didn’t shout Kitsulli. Maybe they didn’t recognize me. Or they could just think we were having an intense conversation.”

  He nods once, his focused gaze drifting back to where they left.

  I think of something. “You memorized this maze, didn’t you? For security.”

  A smile plays on his lips. “Is that a problem?”

  “No, but I’ll think better next time than to challenge you to a race in a maze that you’ve fucking memorized,” I say. “It’s not a fair start.”

  He places two hands on his chest. “I need all the help I can get if it’s a foot race against you.”

  “You don’t want to beat me fair and square?” Why am I drifting back towards him? Why can’t I stay away? I stare up at him in challenge, and our hands brush again.

  He looks down, longing stretching between us. “Lady Meadows, no one can beat you fair and square.”

  My heart thumps again.

  Chatter grows stronger at the entrance of the ma
ze. The moment is about to skid to a screeching halt. “Cumbuckets,” I sigh. “There’s no privacy here, is there?”

  “We can find a place.” Akara clasps my hand and leads me towards the exit. The way he cups my hand is less romantic and more professional-looking.

  Outside the maze, we start to pass the hot chocolate and eggnog huts again.

  “Sulli!” Jane carries two hot cocoas with Thatcher out in front as her bodyguard hubby.

  “I wondered where you went,” Jane says, her cheeks rosy. “I just saw your sister a little while ago. All the girls were making snow angels near the sledding, and Winona wanted to take pictures with you before it gets late.”

  “I’ll go find her in a minute.”

  “Here.” She passes me the extra mug of cocoa. “It’s spiked, so beware.”

  “Thanks,” I say, grateful for the warmth and more liquid to build that magical barrier.

  Behind us, I hear Thatcher say, “Happy Birthday.”

  Akara nods in thanks, but the tension is thick between them. They barely look at each other. Jeez, that’s not fucking good. I wince a little. My mom has a lot of theories about friendships, and I’m starting to believe a new one:

  When one friendship is healed, another explodes.

  “Where’s Banks?” Jane asks me. “I thought you’d probably stick around him too tonight while he’s on Xander’s detail.”

  My stomach drops. “Uh, I’m…” I’m on a date with Akara. Will Jane understand? Fucking doubtful. She’ll think I’m not being fair to Banks, when we all agreed to sprinkle in one-on-one dates.

  “We’re headed his way,” Akara says, coming in with the save.

  “Speaking of Banks,” Thatcher says, more to Akara than us, “I don’t know if he mentioned, but he’ll need a Friday in January off-duty. We’re going to a Flyers game with our dad.”

  Akara is as shocked as me. “Banks is spending time with his dad? At a hockey game?”

  “He said he’d go,” Thatcher tells us. “It surprised me too, considering the leak and what he’s said to my brother in the past. Banks hasn’t gotten over it.”

  Oh no…

  Akara doesn’t know what Michael Moretti has fully said, and I’m not at fucking liberty to divulge any of that information. But I think it should come from Banks.

  Not Thatcher.

  “Thatcher,” I start.

  Akara is already talking. “About him being the dispensable one?”

  I down most of the hot cocoa in a few gulps, and Jane so sweetly places a full mug in my hand like she knows chocolate is the bomb-dot-fucking-com during intense situations.

  Even better spiked.

  I wash down a new bout of nerves.

  “Yeah…” Thatcher scrutinizes Akara for a blip and maybe my unease. “You know the full context, right? Banks told you before you hired our dad?”

  Akara frowns. “Just that those were the last words his dad said before he left.”

  “Banks said nothing else?”

  Akara’s head whips to me, looking for answers.

  I have them.

  My stomach twists in a billion knots. “Kits,” I breathe. “Banks should tell you himself.”

  Thatcher grinds down on his teeth. “The three of you aren’t on the same page? How is this going to work?”

  Okay, it might not be an A+ showing for our triad, but we’re new to this. We’re not fucking perfect! We didn’t pretend to be. And why do we have to keep proving ourselves to everyone?

  Akara has a hand on his forehead, distraught. “What am I missing?”

  37

  AKARA KITSUWON

  Sulli wants me to wait for Banks to reveal the entire truth, but if it were up to him, it’d never happen. He’d rather go die on a sword than slit one across the back of my knees and throat.

  “Dammit, someone tell me the truth,” I curse with fire in my chest. “We all know Banks won’t.”

  Sulli must not have the heart to slug me for the curse word. Her conflicted gaze travels to Thatcher and to me. Jane takes Sulli’s hand in hers with comfort and support.

  I don’t want Sulli to break a promise to Banks, so I drill into Thatcher. “I need to know. This goes beyond our friendship with each other. I hired your dad. If there’s a conflict of interest…?” I trail off seeing some sort of pain in Thatcher’s eyes.

  His brows knit together like he’s staring at the sun. “I thought he would’ve told you.”

  Tell me.

  Tell me.

  Please, dammit, tell me! I’m nearly rattling with adrenaline and dread. “Thatcher.”

  “The night…” He struggles to even say the words.

  Jane helps. “The night Skylar passed away.”

  Thatcher nods once, then finishes, “My dad wished Banks were the one who died that night, and he wished it out loud. To him.”

  My head goes numb. Body goes numb.

  Michael Moretti wished Banks dead. He told him he wanted him dead. I know death. I’ve met death as a teenager, and to think a father could wish that on a young son after Banks was suffering from the loss and pain of losing his brother…

  I hate Michael Moretti.

  I despise him.

  I’m sickened at the thought of having him even near Banks. How Thatcher is okay with that for his twin brother, how he can so easily forgive—maybe he’s better than me. Maybe he’s too good, but I’m not putting money or my company above Banks.

  Michael Moretti can go, and I need to find Banks. Now.

  38

  BANKS MORETTI

  “No, you cannot touch him,” I say for the umpteenth time tonight. Jesus, you’d think they’d understand I’m not in a museum asking them to keep their hands off a fuckin’ marble statue. This is a living, breathing sixteen-year-old human being.

  Who currently has his hoodie drawn up as he packs in the midsection of a strange-looking snowman. “Sir Frost Squall of the Northern born,” Xander decrees to his friend. Easton Mulligan works on the head and places gum drops in circles for eyes.

  He’s giving their snowman four eyes, no kidding. “Frost Squall, the all-seer,” Easton says, “part of the elite Northern born who can spot battles three lands away.”

  Xander smiles over at the pale, dark-haired boy. Easton still looks like a teen vampire, but in the past year, he’s had a growth spurt. Not so much in height but in build. He’s still lean but less scrawny, which makes Xander look like a twig next to him.

  I smile, knowing their friendship hasn’t sputtered out into nothingness.

  “Back up,” Donnelly barks as he sidesteps in front of another young girl who wears a Gucci beanie. Every kid and teenager here are either the child of a socialite or a friend of the Hales, Meadows, and Cobalts. I’m betting this girl’s parents are schmoozing other adults and totally oblivious their daughter is bothering Xander Hale and his security.

  “I just want a selfie,” she whines.

  Xander flinches and tries to obstruct himself from view with the snowman. Easton notices and stands on the other side of Xander to fully conceal him.

  “Not tonight.” Donnelly keeps his arm out, and when this girl tries to duck under him, I block her with my own body.

  She rams into me, hard enough to fall back on her ass.

  Tonight is a clusterfuck, and my raging migraine isn’t helping. I chew on a toothpick to try to ease the thunderstorm banging against my temple. But the only thing that’s going to help is being away from these screams that verge on excited, overwhelmed cries.

  “Back up,” I snap angrily. Fire must be coming out of my fuckin’ eyeballs at this point because the girl skitters back, grabbing her friend’s hand in the process.

  Donnelly gives me a look of gratitude. “Bet you missed this.”

  I lift a shoulder and we both steal the briefest glance to Xander. He’s packing in more snow with Easton helping at his side. Quieter, I tell Donnelly, “I like seeing the kid happy.”

  He smiles. “Ditto.”

 
“You’ve done a good job with him.”

  Just as I say the words, Xander asks with a smile, “Hey, Donnelly, we’re trying to figure out what’s cooler: Sir Frost Squall with an extra foot for speed and swiftness or an extra hand for dexterity and…other things.” He’s grinning.

  To jerk off.

  He means to jerk off.

  To be sixteen again.

  Donnelly is better than most at talking and maintaining a safe perimeter. While he waves a hand in reprimand to a girl who nears, he tells Xander, “Why not both?”

  Xander looks to Easton.

  Easton shrugs. “Sir Frost Squall is twice skilled on hand and foot?”

  “Awesome,” Xander smiles, and they get to work on the geekiest snowman in the contest. They’ve been meticulous on their work and also interrupted an ass-fuck number of times, so most families and teens have already finished.

  Dozens of snowmen are staggered around a few trees, branches lit with multi-colored lights and decorated with ribbons. I spot mostly classic snowmen: scarves, top hats, and button noses. Only a few have character like Xander’s fantasy creation. The Harry Potter snowman is lopsided with a touch of scoliosis, and the punk rock snowman is losing its head.

  I’d say Xander might actually have a shot here, but Sir Frost Squall is more like Sir Blob Squall.

  You’d think he was a professional snowman-maker the way a crowd has formed. Girls are crying. Literal tears run down their cheeks like they’re breathing the same air as the pope. They snap pictures and call out his name.

  Donnelly and I extend our arms out to fortify a barrier and keep them from encroaching on Xander’s safe space. Cold pricks and numbs my bare hands, but my mouth curves upward, remembering my gloves on Sulli’s fingers.

  Xander pulls his hood down and runs a hand through his thick hair. The entire crowd erupts in a wave of awwws. He flushes before pulling his hoodie back over his head.

  Donnelly follows my gaze and whispers to me, “Only hope for the lil elf was puberty makin’ him look like a toad.”

  “Yeah,” I whisper subtly back. “That didn’t go down well.” Puberty was more than kind to Xander Hale. He was ethereal-looking as a preteen, but the older he’s grown, the more pronounced his features have become. Sharp cheekbones, bottomless expressive amber eyes, a tall, lanky build, and model-worthy looks all add up to Tumblr and TikTok fans being obsessed with him.