by Meghan March
Still hard to believe we’re here.
“You sure this is where you want to live? We could go anywhere.”
My wife—my beautiful, incredible wife—looks over at me from the passenger seat of the SUV.
“I already bought the house. There’s no changing my mind now.” Temperance glances up in the rearview mirror to look in the backseat at our sleeping twin girls. “They’re going to love it here.”
At the stop sign, I look over my shoulder. Just like every time I see them, I can’t help but smile. We did that.
Fucking miracles.
I also married their mama before they were born, and because we were on an island in the middle of the South Pacific, I was able to give her my name.
When we came back, we learned that Temperance’s girl Ariel had wiped much of the history of my death off the internet, but it still doesn’t wipe people’s minds clean. I’m Ken Sax, an avid day trader to the rest of the world, because it will never be safe for me to live as Kane Savage. It doesn’t bother me, though, because I have a life I could never have dreamed of the day I adopted my alias.
I don’t know how I let Temperance talk me into moving into a house out on acreage just one town over from where I grew up. Oh, wait. Yes, I do. She was naked. All joking aside, there’s nothing I wouldn’t give any of my girls.
“Turn up here. It’s down about a mile, on the right.”
I’ve yet to see the house she picked, but it doesn’t matter what it looks like as long as I have my family with me.
It’s been eighteen months since my official retirement, which means I’ve had time to watch Temperance shine as her career took off like a rocket headed for the moon. She’s been working through her brother’s betrayal one piece at a time, and the emotion fuels her. There’s a piece of that grief in every single sculpture she makes, but a little less each time.
The waiting list for a Temperance Ransom original is over a year long. Together, we’ve created a totally new life for ourselves and the girls—and it feels good. Damn good.
Temperance points out the mailbox, and I turn down the long paved driveway until I see a big yellow house at the end that looks like someone dipped it in sunshine.
I glance at my wife, and she smiles.
Fitting.
She’s brought me into the light. No more shadows.
I lean over and steal a kiss. “I love it.”
Her grin widens. “I knew you would. Ready to see the inside?”
“Let’s split up the troops and check it out.”
Temperance
Six months later
“Thank you so much, Nan. I appreciate it more than you know.”
Our next-door neighbor, Nan Prather, gives me a hug. “Like I would ever turn down the chance to babysit those little girls. I swear, they’ve given me a second lease on life. I always wanted grandbabies of my own.”
It guts me that I can’t tell Kane’s mom that I picked this house so she could have her family back.
Her son.
Her grandbabies.
The daughter-in-law she probably never thought she’d get to hug.
But how do you explain to someone why her son had to fake his death over a decade and a half ago and could never tell her he was alive?
When Kane realized who our next-door neighbors were—his mom and the man his dad asked to watch over them both—I thought he might shake me. But he didn’t.
He got really quiet, swept a hand over Adrianna’s downy-soft hair and stared at Lauren. Finally, after about five minutes, he told me, “You did right, princess. She loves these girls. I would’ve given this to her if I could’ve found a way how. You knew that, and you found the way.”
He stepped away from our daughters and wrapped his hand around my neck, bringing his lips to my forehead.
“You always give me exactly what I need.”
When I look into Nan’s blue eyes, I see so much of Kane there. She and Jeremiah are thrilled to be the twins’ honorary grandparents, but I would give anything for Nan to know there’s nothing honorary about it.
Maybe someday.
Kane
“Thank you so much, ma’am.” I take the diaper bag Temperance left inside from Ma’s hands. Nan’s hands. I always have to correct myself, but it never seems to stick. “We really appreciate you watching the girls. Means the world to us.”
“Means the world to me too.”
She smiles, and seeing the joy on her face that has been there every time she’s watched my babies has healed my soul in a way nothing else could.
I feel so fucking blessed to have this life that I shouldn’t have been allowed.
It’s all because of Temperance.
“Thank you again,” I say as I turn for the door.
“It’s really not a problem, Kane.”
I freeze in midstep.
“You think I wouldn’t know my own boy? I’ve been waiting six months for you to tell me, and I think I’ve waited long enough.”
Slowly, I turn around, and that joy is still on her face. Along with knowledge.
“You think a mother wouldn’t know? I don’t care if it was fifteen years or fifty, I would always know my boy.”
A lump rises in my throat. “How long have you known?”
“Since the first time you cursed and checked yourself in front of me. Same way you always did when you were minding your manners. Then there’s your girls—they have the same eyes you did when you were their age. A mother just knows.”
“I’m so sorry, Ma. So fucking sorry.” I rush toward her and gather her into a hug.
“Don’t you apologize for anything. Not now. Not ever. You gave me everything when you changed the course of my life. Another man I love and who loves me with every breath in his body. And now, two grandbabies and a daughter to spoil. I have everything because you gave up the world for me.”
I bow my head as tears drip down my cheeks onto her face, mingling with hers. “I love you, Ma.”
“I know, Kane. I’ve always known.”
When I walk out of the house and Temperance sees my face, she rushes toward me.
“What’s wrong?”
I wrap my arms around her and squeeze hard. “Nothing.”
“She knows, doesn’t she?”
I nod silently, because that lump in my throat won’t budge.
When I release my hold on my wife, I drop to my knees, and my baby girls crawl toward me.
I bow my head and give thanks to whoever was handing out second chances to broken men the day I got mine.
I may not deserve this life, but I will never take it for granted.
I am whole again.
* * *
The End
I hope you enjoyed the Savage trilogy! Not ready to let go of Temperance and Kane quite yet? If you sign up for my newsletter, you’ll receive access to a special bonus scene I wrote for them!
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Want to know what’s coming next from me? Keep reading for a sneak peek of my newest dirty talking alpha, Lincoln Riscoff, in Richer Than Sin.
Have you met the Ruthless King of the city? Keep reading for a glimpse of my dark and dirty alpha, Lachlan Mount, in Ruthless King.
If you’re wondering where you can find out more about Valentina, Vanessa, Yve, or Ariel, you can find them, and their deliciously addictive alphas, in the Beneath Series.
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Each book in the Beneath Series is a standalone. Find out more by tapping on the titles.
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Beneath This Mask (Book #1 - Simon and Charlie)
Beneath This Ink (Book #2 - Con and Vanessa)
Beneath These Chains (Book #3 - Lord and Elle)
Beneath These Scars (Book #4 - Lucas and Yve)
Beneath These Lies (Book #5 - Rix and Valentina)
Beneath These Shadows (Book #6 - Bishop and Eden)
Beneath The Truth (Book #7 - Rhett and Ariel)
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Richer Than Sin
Preview
About This Book
A Riscoff and a Gable can never live happily ever after. Our family feud is the stuff of legends.
Ten years ago, Whitney Gable caught me off guard with her long legs and grab-you-by-the-balls blue eyes.
I didn’t know or care what her name was.
Like any Riscoff worth the family name, I went after what I wanted. We burned like a flash fire until she married another man.
She hates me, and she should.
I objected on her wedding day.
Now she’s home, with those same long legs and man-eater stare, but there’s no ring on her finger.
They say a Riscoff and a Gable can never live happily ever after . . . but I’m not done with Whitney Gable.
I’ll never be done with her.
* * *
Richer Than Sin is now available for preorder by clicking here.
Prologue
* * *
Lincoln
“I object.”
Every head in the entire congregation swings toward the double doors I flung open.
My vision is fuzzy, no doubt from the two fifths of Scotch I used to try to drown out the fact that she’s marrying someone else today.
Because a Gable and a Riscoff can never be together.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to watch Whitney Gable marry someone else and not say a goddamned word.
“You asshole. How dare you?”
Whitney is dressed in white, looking like the perfect bride, aside from the militant look on her face as she stomps down the aisle toward me.
I might’ve miscalculated in my drunken haze.
“You can’t marry him.” I’m pretty sure my words slur, but I don’t care.
“I don’t know why you think you get to have an opinion, but get the hell out of here.”
“I can buy and sell him.” More slurring.
Whitney’s eyes burn with anger.
“I. Don’t. Care. Because you can’t buy me.”
Two sets of arms grab me from behind and drag me back toward the doors.
“Don’t do this—” My words are cut off as I’m shoved down the front steps of the church.
“If you ever look at my sister again, I will fucking kill you myself. I don’t care how much fucking money your family has.” Whitney’s brother looms over me, and I don’t doubt his promise, especially not while he’s wearing his Army dress uniform and green beret.
Next to him is the groom. The man who sold Whitney the biggest crock of shit I’ve ever heard in my life. I told myself there was no way she’d ever go through with it. No way her brother would let her.
I was wrong.
He’d let her marry anyone but a Riscoff.
The groom smirks but says nothing as they both turn and march up the steps.
If I wasn’t so fucking wasted, I’d go back in and try again.
He might be marrying her today, but I’m not done with Whitney Gable.
I’ll never be done with her.
* * *
Richer Than Sin is coming in August. Click here to preorder.
Ruthless King Preview
Get ready for the darker and dirtier side of New Orleans with an epic alpha romance from New York Times bestselling author Meghan March.
New Orleans belongs to me.
You don’t know my name, but I control everything you see—and all the things you don’t.
My reach knows no bounds, and my demands are always met.
I didn’t need to loan money to a failing family distillery, but it amuses me to have them in my debt.
To have her in my debt.
She doesn’t know she caught my attention.
She should’ve been more careful.
I’m going to own her. Consume her. Maybe even keep her.
It’s time to collect what I’m owed.
Keira Kilgore, you’re now the property of Lachlan Mount.
ONE
Keira
Are those footsteps?
I freeze outside the door to my locked office and stare at the handle like it’s tainted with anthrax.
My younger sisters wouldn’t dare. They know my office is off limits. My parents are 700 miles away in Florida living it up as retirees on the monthly payments I make from the dismal profits of the distillery. It’s barely hanging on, even after four generations of clinging to life making Irish whiskey in New Orleans.
This basement isn’t haunted. This basement isn’t haunted.
I repeat that truth like a chant until my heart slows to a semi-normal pace. My dead husband’s ghost better not be inside, or heaven help me, I’ll kill Brett again myself.
Summoning the same iron will it has taken to dig this company out of the trenches, I grasp the handle, yank it open, and fling myself inside, attempting the element of surprise. Or false courage. Or… something.
“Trying to make an entrance?” The deep voice that comes out of the dark chills me to the very marrow of my bones.
I’ve only heard it once before, through the battered wood of the same locked door I just barged past, but it had been delivering threats I didn’t understand, not asking a question in that cool, controlled manner.
There’s no way I want to be in the dark with this voice.
He’s not a ghost. He’s worse.
He’s the friggin’ boogeyman.
Whispered about in the shadows, but never mentioned in polite company, almost as if saying his name will make him appear—and no one wants that.
I’ve never said it.
I don’t even want to think it now, but my brain conjures it anyway.
Lachlan Mount.
I fumble around, slapping the concrete wall to find the switch, but when I flip it, nothing happens.
Oh Sweet Jesus, I’m going to die and I won’t even see it coming.
My antique desk chair creaks just before the dim glow of my lamp clicks on.
I see his massive hands first, then darkly tanned forearms with white cuffs rolled up. The light doesn’t reach his face.
“Shut the door, Ms. Kilgore.”
Swallowing back the saliva pooling in my mouth at the fact that he knows my name, my hand moves as though directly responding to his command. I grope for the handle behind me, when all I really want to do is turn around and run.
To the police.
Maybe they could… I don’t know. Save me?
I glance over my shoulder, clutching the knob as the door creaks shut, the urge to flee growing as the dim light of the hallway disappears from sight.
“Take a step in that direction, and you’ll lose everything.”
My feet freeze to the cracked cement floor as a bead of sweat rolls down my chest. Normally I would attribute it to the sauna-like conditions produced by the stills, but not tonight.
“What do you want?” I whisper. “Why are you here?”
The chair groans as he rises to his feet, those wide fingers refastening the button on his suit, but his face never coming in to the light.
“You owe me a debt, Ms. Kilgore, and I’m here to collect.”
A debt? My mind scrambles to think of how in the hell I could owe him money. I’ve never met him before. Hell, I’ve never seen him before, only heard his voice while I eavesdropped. My kind doesn’t mingle with his kind, well, at least most of my kind. A few rumors have circled that he kept Richelle LaFleur, a girl from our church, as a mistress until she went missing a year ago. I shut that path of thinking down completely.
“What are you talking about?” Somehow I manage to form the question.
Two fingers push a document titled Promissory Note across the scarred wood of my desk into
the watery pool of light. My eyes rivet on the papers, but I’m too terrified to step any closer.
Oh sweet Jesus, Brett. What did you do? My heart slams against my ribs.
“Don’t you want to know how much your husband was willing to risk to save this place?”
“How much?” I ask, inching his way against my will.
“A half million dollars.”
I suck in a shocked breath. “You’re lying.”
With both hands on the table, he leans down, exposing his face in the dim light. Hard features carved from granite, piercing eyes, and an unrelenting stare contrast with the relative civility of the suit that fits him to perfection.
“I never lie.”
A half million dollars? No way. “I would’ve known if Brett had sunk five hundred thousand into the distillery, and let me tell you—he didn’t.”
He shrugs as if the information means nothing to him. And maybe it doesn’t.
“His signature says that he did, and this debt is overdue.”
My eyes zero in on the papers on the desk. If he really did this… The effects would be catastrophic.
Four generations of Kilgores had dedicated their hopes, dreams, and fortunes to keeping this legacy alive. It couldn’t end with me.
“I don’t have the money.”
“I know.”
His response throws me back on my heels. “Then why—”
He moves out of the light and comes toward me. I shrink back against the wall as he advances.
“Because there’s something I might be willing to take on trade.”