I nod back.
I still remember the day Ryke made me pull my car into a gas station. There, he said: “Our dad abuses you. He’s verbally abusive, and he’s fucked with your head.”
I told him, I know. A part of me had always known. No one had really used that word with me before Ryke.
I’ve come to terms with my past. I can talk about what happened. I can even admit that my love for my father never bled away. Despite everything. He could gut me with a knife, and I’d still love him. After years of therapy, I understand that it’s partly my own insecurity.
Of feeling like I’m unlovable.
Feeling like he might be the only person who could ever love me.
And wanting, desperately, for someone to love him. Believing we’re the same. He has to feel a similar pain too, and he wants that pain to go away.
There’s no hate in my heart for my dad. Ryke carries all of it for me, but I wouldn’t wish my relationship with Jonathan Hale onto Garrison. Or anyone else.
Garrison has no real time to respond.
My blood ices over the minute the door swings open. My dad steps inside, shutting the door behind him. His hair has grayed, more salt than pepper.
I’m still standing with my brother, but Garrison rises off the chair as soon as my dad walks further into the den.
“You.” My dad points at Garrison. “We need to talk.”
“You can fucking talk here,” Ryke pipes in first. My brother feels responsible for not just Garrison but for me too.
“Actually.” Garrison zips up his jacket and slips his phone in his jean’s pocket. “I’m out.”
My dad physically stands in front of the door. “Don’t be a little coward. I barely even said a fucking word to you.”
Ryke and I fill the distance between Garrison and my dad, so they’re not standing close.
“Little coward? That’s a nice one,” Garrison says dryly.
My dad rolls his eyes, but I can tell he’s trying more than usual. He stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Just sit down.”
Garrison contemplates this. “I’m trying not to make this worse for my girl, so the minute you come at me, I’m done.” He sits.
My dad nods. “That’s fair.” He leans his shoulder on the door. “Since we’re family, I’ll give you this courtesy.”
“Oh now we’re family. I must’ve missed that abrupt step-up from the shit on the bottom of your shoe.”
My dad lets out a short laugh. “This is why you have no friends—”
“Fuck you,” Ryke curses.
“Dad.” I shake my head at him. That’s what my dad used to tell me when I was younger. Garrison isn’t me. I swear remorse flits in my dad’s eyes.
Garrison cuts in, “It’s whatever. What do you want to say to me?”
“Congratulations,” my dad says in a much more light-hearted tone. “I would’ve started with that but you attacked first.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Ryke mutters like our dad is insane. I get him though.
“So you’re…okay with this?” Garrison frowns.
“If Willow is happy, then I’m happy. And she’s the happiest I’ve seen her.” There aren’t any handshakes or offers to smoke a cigar. Because he adds, “I thought you’d be different from Loren on this account.” He’s referring to Moffy. “What happened to the box of condoms I gave you?”
My brows shoot up. My dad gave Garrison condoms. I almost laugh.
Garrison cringes. “First of all, the pregnancy wasn’t an accident. Second, I threw that shit away. I can buy my own.”
“Wasteful, but maybe I would’ve done the same.”
Garrison looks repulsed at the comparison between him and Jonathan. He stands again, but not on the offensive or defensive. He’s neutral. My dad is neutral. Garrison asks, “Is that it?”
“You’re not my favorite,” he reminds him.
Garrison shrugs. “You’re not mine either.” He goes towards the door. I follow with Ryke too, but Jonathan Hale still blocks the exit.
“That’s not it.”
Garrison stops.
My dad captures his gaze as he says, “If you walk out on my daughter and her baby, I will find you and bleed you for all you’re worth.” He pauses. “And then I will find a way to make sure you never procreate again. Understood?”
Of all the things he’s ever said, this is pretty mild.
Garrison snaps, “Our baby. It’s not only hers.”
My dad casually steps aside. “Is something wrong with your left eardrum? Did you not hear the rest?”
“About bleeding me, cutting off my dick—yeah, I heard all that.” He nods. “Awesome. I’d feel the same way if someone broke her heart. I love Willow, and I’m not going anywhere, so you’ll just have to deal with me being your least favorite.”
My dad walks to a beverage cart, just water and lemons on the silver tray. “I never fucking said you were my least favorite.” He picks up a pitcher of water. “Just not my favorite.”
“Who’s your least favorite?” Garrison has to ask.
My dad just fills up a crystal glass. “You three should return to your wives. They’re outside gossiping, I’m sure.”
Ryke grumbles something about sexism before pushing out the door. I follow behind with Garrison. Neutral. That’s where they left the state of things.
In my dad’s world, that’s enough to be considered family.
As we walk down the dim hallway of a mansion that doesn’t feel like home anymore, Garrison asks me, “Who’s his least favorite?”
“Connor Cobalt.”
Garrison nods once and doesn’t ask why. He’s heard about their history. Even though my dad apologized to Connor, he’s still not a fan of Connor Cobalt. Why? Simple.
Jonathan Hale hates to be bested, and only one man has ever really beaten him. And only one man probably ever will.
[ 34 ]
November 2023
The Abbey Loft
Philadelphia
CONNOR COBALT
I wash dishes with Ryke after Thanksgiving dinner. The dishwasher broke before we could start the first load, so we dry them by hand. I don’t have to follow his gaze to know where his eyes land.
“The more you stare at her, the more she won’t sit down.” I pass him a plate to dry, but he’s too distracted by a twenty-week pregnant Rose. My annoyance slowly creeps towards the surface, and I shove most down. “In layman’s terms, which you clearly need, bottle your fucking concern.”
I flip the plate in front of his face.
He snaps out of it and rips the dish from my hand. “I did five minutes ago, and she’s still fucking standing.” We have the same goal. Make sure Rose is comfortable. The issue: Ryke can’t grasp the interworking of Rose’s mind, not even as I attempt to coach him.
I’m the best tutor, so the failure is all his.
“You can’t treat her any differently than you usually do.” Dishware clinks together as I set more dirtied bowls in the sink basin.
“I’m usually fucking concerned.”
“I assure you, not like this.” We’re all treating this baby like it’s our first one. The only advantage is that I understand Ryke. I understand Rose. I understand them all better than they understand each other. I also understand Daisy, who has been the shining light of Rose’s pregnancy. They both nearly glow when they’re together.
Ryke holds my gaze. “Just fucking look at her and tell me she’s not in pain.”
“She’s been standing beside her empty chair since dinner ended. Her feet hurt. Her back hurts. She hates you but not more than she hates me, and she wishes we’d both stop discussing her body. I know Rose,” I tell him. “I don’t have to blatantly stare at her to understand. You’ve confused me with you.”
His jaw hardens. “I don’t blatantly fucking stare.”
“Yes you do.” I’ve seen him stare for longer than she’d allow most people.
Ryke rubs his unshaven jaw. “This is fucking hard for me,�
� he admits.
“That’s obvious.”
He glowers.
“Yes?” I begin to smile.
“You could’ve just fucking said me too.”
I arch a brow. “So you’d like me to lie to you.”
He groans and throws a dishtowel at the sink faucet. We both never signed up for a marriage with one another, but here we are: washing dishes together, having a baby in some fashion together, and bickering like we’ve known each other for far too long.
Which we have.
“You’re making it hard on yourself,” I tell him. “Take a breath. Relax. Maybe try yoga, I hear that helps for expecting mothers.”
“Fucking hilarious.” He does relax at my words. He understands. Rose is the one pregnant, and if something were wrong, she’d tell him. She wouldn’t outwardly alert me because she wouldn’t have to. I’d know immediately, and I wouldn’t be anywhere but by her side.
I check my watch. I’ve distracted him for long enough. “She’s sitting now.”
He tries to subtly check, and I see his shoulders drop. “Thank fucking God.”
“Or you could thank someone who actually helped.” Me.
Ryke stays quiet just to piss me off, but I don’t grant him the satisfaction.
“Oh crap!” Moffy shouts, followed by more guys groaning in defeat. Behind us, two flat-screen televisions are side-by-side, two teams on beanbags. Girls vs. Guys. Jane and Moffy have the only two game controllers, pounding the buttons quickly.
Sorin-X from The Fourth Degree comics is on each of their screens, both playing the identical game and tracking how far they go into the storyline. It’s the game Garrison created. The one I invested my resources and time in. It launched at the beginning of November to record sales, and the reviews validated his talent.
An original masterpiece…
Gaming has never seen an adventure quite as fascinating as this one…
You’ll never want it to end…
He coded the game, which means that the functionality, the storyline, the gameplay all originate from his mind first. I don’t think anyone was prouder than Lo.
“A-B-pull-backwards,” Charlie coaches Moffy, trying to help him move along in the game. I’m no more surprised Charlie memorized special moves than I am at Tom’s disinterest. My three-year-old looks like he jumped on the beanbag, face-first, and just never moved from there.
Rose stands up, a few three-ring binders in hand.
A timer buzzes. “Switch,” Garrison calls to both teams.
Moffy passes the controller to his dad. Then Jane tries to pass hers to Lily, and she hot-potatoes the controller, not expecting to be asked to play.
Ryke and I both dry our hands on dishtowels as Rose slides towards us, one of her hands perched on her lower back. With each pregnancy, her body becomes sore sooner than the last. The cause is a combination of her heels and forcing her back straight with the extra weight.
I don’t approach her yet, but she stops between the island counter and the sink. “Does this look even? I polled the girls, but the results are extremely biased.” More people placate Rose when she’s pregnant.
She raises the black binder and shows us the title scrawled across the front.
The Evolution of Tom Carraway Cobalt’s Style
“Carraway is crooked, darling.”
Her eyes flame at her work.
Ryke gestures to the binder. “It looks fucking straight to me.”
I cut in, “If you don’t trust me over Ryke then we have a bigger issue than an off-kilter title.”
Rose skims the title again. “I trust me more than both of you combined…is this smudged?” This time, she just asks me.
“No.”
Rose’s piercing eyes flit to my lips. Her nose flares, less fight in her eyes and more softness, like hot magma. Not sparking fire, not blistering flames. Just molten lava. Her rare melting expression consumes me.
I cock my head. She shifts sideways like she means to return to her chair, but she lingers here. Rose is unquestionably overly aroused.
I wait for a moment or two longer, and she turns to me and asks, “Is this ugly?” She has the binder opened to the second page. She called Tom her fashion soul mate until he went from a plain black wardrobe to a black wardrobe with gothic elements: ghosts, skull-and-crossbones, headstones.
He’s three and severely influenced by his older brother, though Rose will rebut that Eliot refuses to wear prints like Tom, and he likes deep red, green, and purple before black.
I hear the faucet behind me, Ryke continuing the dishes.
“The entire page?” I question.
“The way the three-rings jut out. Should I go with a different binding?” She flips it back towards herself, her gaze darting from me to the binder. Tension spindles between us.
“No.”
She inhales shallowly and steps towards me, but then shifts away.
I come up behind her, sliding my hand along the base of her bare neck, my other hand skating across her collarbone. I whisper in her ear, “You want my advice, Miss Highest Honors?” She’s hot to the touch. “Then I advise you to walk to the bathroom, keep your legs together, and wait inside.”
Rigid, unbending—I scan the length of her legs, one of my hands descending to her ass. “Dépêche-toi, chérie.” Hurry, darling.
She sets her binder on the counter, and instead of glaring, she keeps her back towards me, heels clapping against the floor. Rose heads to the bathroom.
I roll up the sleeves of my button-down higher, and I put her binder on a barstool, safe from the dirtied counters.
“Is she alright?” Ryke asks me, his concern unable to retreat.
“She’s better than you are.”
Ryke flips me off.
I tell him that I’m checking on Rose before I leave. I slip down a very short hallway, the whole kitchen and living area still visible from here. I knock. “It’s Connor, darling.”
I hear the lock click.
I open the door and then lock it back. The minimal bathroom has a tub, toilet, and concrete sink, industrial-styled like the rest of the loft.
Rose grips the sink behind her, neck elongated as though her own vulnerability frightens her. I reach her in seconds, towering above her frame. My hands drift tenderly along her shoulders and waist.
I kiss her forehead and whisper, “Vous êtes en sécurité avec moi.” You’re safe with me.
She clutches fiercely onto my biceps, and then she covers her face with one hand, as though trying to hide how submissive she is. She’s not trying to impale me with her eyes. She’s not spouting off death threats and resisting on purpose.
I tear her hand away and then stroke her hair. “Relax,” I murmur in my smoothest tone. “I’d never hurt you, Rose.” I always keep reassuring her when she feels this way.
Her breath shallows again, and I guide her head to my shoulder. While she calms, I slip my hand beneath her dress and hook my fingers in her panties. I rip them off. She shudders and lifts her head up a fraction.
I run my fingers between her legs.
She’s soaked.
Rose is unmoving, her joints locked tight.
“Vous êtes en sécurité avec moi.” I massage her head and then I kiss her hard. She whimpers against my mouth. Her neck flushes at the noise she made.
I harden instantly, my cock begging to be inside of my wife.
I adore all of Rose, this moment as much as the enflaming, raging ones.
Effortlessly, I lift Rose to the concrete sink counter, my cock at perfect height with her pelvis. And now she isn’t straining in her heels. I still have a clear height advantage, needing to stare down. She doesn’t combat me.
Rose grips the waistband of my slacks with white knuckles, legs spread wide open. I have to rip her hands off, just so I can remove my pants. I set her palms on my shoulders. I step out of my slacks, and then she tries to bury her face in her arm.
“Rose, Rose,” I whisper. “I’d n
ever hurt you.” I lift up her head.
She tightens her eyes closed.
“Breathe, darling.”
She tries.
I kiss the base of her neck while I free my erection. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her forehead pressed to my chest. My blood stirs. My lips trail up to her ear, and I whisper the same truths. I’d never hurt you. You’re safe with me, Rose.
I cup her face and grip my shaft. I’d like to fuck her hard until she collapses against me, but she’s pregnant.
Not with your baby.
The single thought tries to gnaw at my unyielding logic.
Not with your baby.
With Ryke’s.
Here’s another truth: I’m possessive when it comes to my things. So is Rose. But I don’t like sharing. She does. It’s why she’s carrying her sister’s baby and why the situation fucks with my mind.
I choose not to hesitate. By the time my lips skim hers in a deep breath, my hand clutching the back of her head, I drive my erection into Rose.
She comes immediately.
I shield her staggered moan beneath my palm. I rock deeper in, building her to another climax before she finishes the first one.
“Connor,” Rose breathes, a tinge of fear in her voice. She’s putty and she’s pregnant.
“Shhh.” I kiss her forehead once more. “Vous êtes en sécurité avec moi. Vous êtes en sécurité avec moi.”
Rose gives herself completely to me, and I honor that trust to the fullest degree. I hold her waist and grip her hair. I take care of her needs. Soft and slow as she quivers. Deeper when she clings tighter to me.
I whisper rapidly in her ear, my unwavering declaration arousing her. While she arouses me. Rose clenches around my cock so frequently that my head lightens, blinding.
I hit a peak with Rose, and while I gently milk the rest of my climax, I hold her against me, her body collapsed in exhaustion and submission. Cheek to my shoulder.
I comb her hair off her face and tuck the strands behind her ear.
Tiredly, she whispers, “Je t’aime.” I love you. As her eyes flit up to me, a spark returns to those yellow-green orbs.
I grin.
Je t’aime.
Some Kind of Perfect (Calloway Sisters #4.5) Page 39