I’m undeservingly the focal point in her blue irises.
“Second,” I tell her, “I want to make an oath with you.”
Surprise catches her breath. “What kind of oath?” Her lips start to inch upward.
What I’ve learned about the Cobalt Empire: the family of nine loves pacts, oaths, soul-binding agreements that put loyalty and trust to the test.
“I want to make you an unbreakable promise,” I tell her. “Do you do blood oaths?”
“Oh no, no blood.” She smiles. “These days, we Cobalts shake on spit.”
I would’ve even shaken on blood. Good to go. “I’m going to start unless you don’t want me to.”
She waves me forward, her face more cheerful towards me than I’ve seen in months. “I’m all ears.”
I’ve never declared something like this to a woman, and it’s the closest I’ve come to feeling like I need to drop to a fucking knee.
I grip her glittering eyes. “I’ll never break your trust again,” I promise, “and if I ever hurt Farrow or Maximoff, I’ll quit security.”
Seriousness draws her lips down. “You understand…that if you break this pact and you don’t quit security, it reflects truly badly on your character and you will never be in my good graces again?”
The stakes have to be high for this to be meaningful, and I can’t fathom hurting them or disappointing her. I won’t fucking break this. “I understand.”
She tenses but then nods. “I accept the oath.” Jane cups her hand below her mouth and spits on her palm, no hesitation.
I watch her for a second before I spit on my hand.
She ropes you in, Thatcher , Banks said.
I didn’t believe him.
Whenever you hear about a heckler railing on Jane, you look like you want to pop them between the eyes, Banks told me. And she’s not even your client. What do you think’ll happen if you actually join her detail?
I extend my arm to Jane first.
Eight months later, I know I’m in deep, but I can control myself and my nine-inch cock.
Hell, I’ve held her hand before where security is concerned. To draw her away from paparazzi. To protect her from crowds.
And now to solidify a promise of trust and devotion.
It’s for her safety. Parameters still intact.
“Bound to this oath, we shake,” Jane declares, and she clasps my hand and with one strong shake, we should let go.
She holds a beat longer
I hold an extra beat longer. Longer than I should .
My chest tightens with a hot breath, and we both loosen our grip.
2
JANE COBALT
Two Months Later
“If you’re just tuning in, this is 97.2 The Fix with Cathy and Jackie, bringing you the latest trending hits and news during your morning commute.”
I raise the volume of my car radio. Drowning out the honking paparazzi who are in a money-fueled cock-fight with each other behind my baby blue Volkswagen Beetle. Both sedans want to ride my bumper and snap pictures through my rear window, but only one can occupy the prime spot.
Pink cat pompoms hang from my rearview mirror and sway back and forth.
I take a quick peek at the mirror. “And the winner is a gray Toyota. Well done, sir, you have won a fabulous view of my scratched bumper.”
One paparazzi cock-fight—at the very minimum—is a constant variable in the fickle equation of my life.
My clammy palms dampen the steering wheel. I’m remarkably nervous. Today, my great and terrible life takes a drastic turn, and I’m trying my best not to be late.
I wipe my hand on the thigh of my pastel purple jeans, and then I grab my giant 32-oz thermos in the cup holder. “Stay on Juniper and take Morris to 13th ?” I ask the twenty-eight-year-old stringent, scruffy bodyguard in the passenger seat.
“You’ll find more cover if you take Morris to 12th and McKean.” His deep, husky voice is like wood smoke after a fire is extinguished.
I risk a glance.
Six-feet-seven-inches of raw masculinity engulfs my car. Thatcher Moretti is stoic.
Stern.
The sort of professional broodiness one would expect from a man who dedicates his whole existence to serving and protecting others. Those others just happen to be the people I love most: my only sister, my five brothers, my many cousins—all of my notoriously famous family.
He’s shifted closer to the middle console for more room.
A swelter prickles my skin. There’s only one inch of tense space between his bulging bicep and my arm. He feels closer, even, and he makes my Beetle look absurdly tiny.
When he was assigned to my detail, I wanted to exchange my Volkswagen to accommodate his…size, and he adamantly opposed the idea.
Thatcher surveys the Toyota behind us. Warmth from his strong build radiates against the nape of my neck. Flush ascends my chest, and he’s not even touching me.
Because that’d be oh-so-inappropriate, Jane.
The oath intact, we’re at a much better place than we were before Greece, but all we’ll ever be is bodyguard-and-client.
Yet, it couldn’t hurt to just imagine.
I sip my coffee and take another peek.
Bulked muscles stretch the sleeves of his gray button-down, fabric rolled to his forearms, and a few popped buttons show off his firm chest and natural hair.
Heat gathers between my legs.
I pulse as I picture his big arms and chest swathing me. In another life, I’d wrap myself up in the powerful heavenliness of Thatcher Moretti, like he’s my warrior archangel prepared to blanket me with his twelve-foot wingspan. All before he hoists me up around—
Thatcher turns slightly. And he catches my ogling gaze.
Flush reaches my cheeks. Merde. “Thatcher.” I’ve greeted him five times today already.
He crosses his arms. “Jane.” His deep tone is never scolding towards me.
“You look…impressively big in my car,” I confess, confronting embarrassment like blasting a slingshot at my own forehead.
I possess the unfortunate inability to run away from my own mortification.
Thatcher stays mostly stoic. His gaze is unflinchingly fixed on my eyes.
The way he’s staring—with bold hardness—just lights my curiosity ablaze. I should definitely shut up now, but I’ve never been good at that. “Truly.” I set my thermos in the cup holder and glance from him to the road. “You have nice muscles. Really quite nice.”
I think I can live with that endnote. Treading the line carefully.
It could be much, much worse. I could’ve said, Oh God, Thatcher, I’m dripping wet right now. You’ve soaked me like Niagara Falls. Please, please plunge your sinful tongue inside of me.
Let me come out of this unscathed.
I look over.
Thatcher seizes my gaze. “I worked out yesterday.” His nose flares some, his muscles tightening, and he uncrosses his arms, just to adjust the seat. Sliding further back so he’s not crowding me.
The air strains with a hundred-and-twenty degree scorch.
I clear an aroused knot in my throat. “12th and McKean?”
“12th and McKean,” he confirms, chest taut, and he rolls his sleeves higher.
I reroute my attention to the road and drive the speed limit. My approach to wild cameramen on Philly streets differs greatly from my best friend.
I avoid heavily trafficked roads. One-ways are my greatest allies, and the narrower the street, the better.
Maximoff’s license will be reinstated in October. Just next month, and I’m hoping Farrow can convince him to not exceed ninety or maybe take the passenger seat. I worry about Moffy trying to outrun paparazzi, especially after the crash.
I turn onto 12th . “Merde,” I curse aloud, suddenly noticing the coffee stain on my frilly white sleeve.
On this very important morning, I chose to wear a laced long-sleeve blouse, a faux fur cheetah vest, pastel jeans, ballet flats and an acorn squash-shaped p
urse, and the probability that I already made Celebrity Crush’s Worst Dressed List is inevitably high.
And it’s only 6 a.m.
Sometimes I believe the media relishes in putting me on blast. I could sneeze and tabloids and internet trolls would say I’m doing it wrong.
Normally, I wouldn’t care about the coffee splotch, but I also don’t want my appearance to read as disrespect.
I keep a hand on the wheel and lift my arm to my mouth. I bite the sleeve and try to tear the fabric off with my teeth.
Thatcher glances over with the same bold toughness.
I mumble, “This is more difficult…than it appears.” This is not working. In my head, I succeeded gloriously all over this idea, but reality likes to slap me with failures left and right. I spit the sleeve off my tongue.
His mounting silence is like a heater in a blizzard. Comforting. And irresistible.
I look from my coffee stain to him and back to the road, spinning my wheel and turning on to McKean. I sigh. “I suppose there are worse stains like blood or jizz.”
Jizz.
I talked about cum on my sleeve in front of my bodyguard.
My eyes gradually widen and widen. So what if I did? I tap the steering wheel, wondering what he’s thinking.
I look right at him for the countless time.
He stares unblinkingly at me, and in one quick flash, he reaches over to the steering wheel and takes my wrist in his large hand. “Can I?”
“Can you…do what?” I squint at Thatcher, my pulse speeding. I have to watch the street, but as his fingers brush my sleeve, I understand. “Yes.” I inhale. “Yes, you can.”
Thatcher suddenly rips the frilly lace right off its seams. In one motion, it’s gone.
My ovaries just exploded.
And my lips rise in a small smile. I give him my other arm. “Again, please.” Our eyes meet for the shortest, most exhilarating second.
He gently cradles my other wrist, and in one strong tug, he tears off more lace.
I haven’t exhaled yet.
Laughter from the radio hosts cuts the tension in two. “Cathy, that’s so wrong. No one will ever be a better lead for Wolverine than Hugh Jackman. He’s the OG.”
“I’m going to have to disagree with you, Jackie…”
I tune out the radio. “How much time do we have?” I bang my dashboard to jostle my frozen clock. Fixing anything I break is always low priority.
Thatcher checks his wristwatch. “Seventeen minutes.”
“We’re dreadfully close to being late.” I barely press the gas any harder.
Slow and steady, Jane.
Thatcher straightens up. “Don’t take Passyunk. Go to 19th .” His Philly lilt is thicker on the street name, and I trust his advice.
I’m driving through South Philly where he grew up.
Brick row houses dart past us, along with the occasional market and deli. Hundreds of personal questions nip at me, but even with his promise of transparency, I’ve been very particular about what I ask my bodyguard.
Thatcher is like a sacred text. I’m tempted to rush through the pages, but something has compelled me to draw out each line, each word. Reading so slowly and carefully so as to never miss a syllable. So a single book, a single person, could last me forever.
I look over at him and settle on a question. “Do your parents still live here?”
He runs a hand across the firm line of his unshaven jaw. “Our—my mom.” He blows out a heavy breath. “Sorry, it’s a habit, always being with Banks.”
I smile at the mention of his twin brother. He speaks more about Banks than anyone else in his life.
It reminds me of Charlie and Beckett. My twin brothers are extraordinarily close, but they’re not identical and they didn’t choose the same career path like Thatcher and Banks did.
“It’s sweet,” I tell him.
His brows pull hard together. One would think he’s never heard that word before.
I flick my blinker and take 19th . “Does your mom live alone?” Last month, I asked if he was close to his parents. We didn’t have long to chat at the time, and all he could get out was that his parents divorced when he was twelve.
Thatcher studies the traffic ahead of us. “My grandma still lives with her.”
Reading into his voice is difficult. Everything sounds cut and dry and simple, and possibly that’s just how it is for Thatcher. I’m used to a family that speaks in riddles and confounding subtext. If a Cobalt is blunt, usually we’re blunt with added flair.
He adjusts his seat again. “My mom remarried, so her wife is with her too.” He hawk-eyes the paparazzi behind us. “She’s openly bi. Been that way since she was a teenager. She dated girls before she met my dad—take a right on Porter up ahead.”
I nod, and my eyes flit to him. “Your dad isn’t still here then?”
“No.” Thatcher shakes his head. “He hasn’t been in Philly for a while. He trains SEAL recruits in Coronado.”
I do remember Thatcher said his dad isn’t an active Navy SEAL at the moment, but he used to be.
I crane my neck to check the rearview mirror. The Toyota is encroaching my bumper. “I have to go a little faster.” I press the gas and then rotate the wheel. Turning a sharp corner onto Porter.
I watch the Toyota mimic me and then slink right on up to my exhaust pipes. “Really?” I crinkle my nose at the mirror. “You’re still going to ride my ass?”
Paparazzi are either about to force me to push twenty-over the speed limit or to endure a minor collision with their car.
Thatcher is already rolling down the passenger window. He sticks his head and muscular arm a little bit outside, and the more he leans, the more he lifts his ass off the seat.
My eyes dart down to his black slacks that mold his butt like perfectly rounded fruit.
“Oh my God,” I breathe underneath my breath. I just checked out my bodyguard’s ass. It wouldn’t be the first time. “You’re most surely going to hell, Jane,” I whisper more softly to myself.
Two out of my five brothers will certainly be there, so at least I won’t be alone. But knowing Tom and Eliot, those two menaces will destroy all eternal pits of fiery damnation the second they enter.
There will be no hell left for me to even occupy.
“Back up!” Thatcher waves for the car to move.
The Toyota hardly budges, and I tighten my grip on the wheel.
“BACK THE FUCK UP!” Thatcher yells in a deep, threatening voice that I’ve heard before. Life-or-death seriousness coats each word, and I can only imagine his features are as caustic.
The car drifts back from my Beetle, paparazzi finally granting me some breathing room.
Precisely why I prefer having a bodyguard as a co-pilot. And Thatcher, in particular. He intimidates cameramen far easier than me. Most of the paparazzi in Philly have seen me in diapers.
“You follow Jane Cobalt on Instagram, don’t you, Cathy?”
My ears perk up at my name on the radio. At the same moment, Thatcher rests his ass on the seat and begins to roll up the window.
I should switch stations, but my curiosity outweighs rationality sometimes.
“You bet I do,” Cathy answers. “Jane Cobalt. Oldest daughter of Rose and Connor Cobalt.”
My lips rise. My mom is a brilliant, ball-busting woman who takes no shit from anyone, especially not from her husband. My dad acts like her rival, but they’re equals in every way, shape, and form.
I love them dearly.
“Get this, Cath,” Jackie says on air. “Just last night, Jane Cobalt posted on Instagram. Did you see it?”
“Let me pop it up.”
Thatcher crosses his arms. Eyes narrowed on the street before veering to me. “You want me to change the channel?”
“It’s okay.” I frown a little. I’m perplexed, really. “I posted nothing terrible last night. Just a picture of my mom and me and a book…” Jane Eyre , my namesake. My voice fades as the radio host, Jackie, desc
ribes the photo.
“…and listen to this caption. Jane wrote, spending time with these beauties. ”
I gape at the car speakers. “And what’s so wrong with that?”
Jackie continues, “Jane Cobalt clearly isn’t spending enough time with her mother because she’s nowhere near the same caliber of woman as Rose Calloway.”
My jaw drops further.
Thatcher is glaring at the row houses that pass us by.
“Oh, for sure,” Cathy agrees. “Jane Cobalt is so ditzy in comparison. Rose Calloway is fierce and dominant. It’s hard to believe Jane Cobalt is even her daughter.”
My eyes flash hot at the radio. “Wow. Stomping on me just to uplift my mom.” It happens too often, but when other women try to pit me against her, it hurts a little more.
The media will run bogus stories about how I’m jealous of mom’s success. Celebrity news loves to define most of my female relationships in my family as catty, competitive, and jealous. Perpetuating an ugly stigma that we cannot work together or support one another.
I would much rather cheer in the stands and watch Sulli win an Olympic gold than ever hope she loses. I can’t imagine rooting against people I love. It must be a lackluster truth since it’s never graced a tabloid.
But the more the media compares me to my mom—just to point out my shortcomings—it does become harder to ignore my failures.
“Now that I think about it, Jackie,” Cath continues on the radio, “what has Jane Cobalt even accomplished in comparison to her mom?”
Here we go.
I press my lips together. What have I done? Not much, really.
Jackie laughs. “She bought her way to Princeton with her last name and notoriety.”
“I did do that,” I admit aloud. Because I will never truly know if I would’ve been accepted to Princeton based on academics and merit alone. I’m very conscious of how much of a leg up I have in life.
“Such a shame,” Cathy says. “Jane Cobalt was so intelligent in math. She could’ve been an engineer.”
Jackie makes a disappointed noise. “Instead, she just rode the coattails of Maximoff Hale and helped his charity.”
“Which Maximoff Hale was kicked out of!” Cathy exclaims with a laugh of disbelief.
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