“It’s what I heard, dude.” Tom slouches back, lip upturned.
“All Thatcher said was that he was respecting our sister,” Ben argues.
I nod once. I’d angle towards the idea that Ben Cobalt already likes me, but with his long legs tucked to his chest and head tilted back, he’s sizing me up.
Haven’t won him over.
Beckett brings a cigarette to his mouth with a graceful hand. Not saying a thing yet. Based off past history—Beckett trying to nail Farrow down—I’m guessing he’ll be the last to come around on me.
Eliot fists the neck of the wine and tells Ben, “It was said between his words.”
“Subtext.” Tom drums his fingers on the table.
I adjust my earpiece, static crackling with comms chatter while Akara tries to locate Quinn Oliveira, Luna’s bodyguard.
Empty bottles and half-eaten baskets of wings are cleared off the table. Familiar scents of cheesesteak and beer linger. I shouldn’t be surprised the Cobalt brothers wanted to stay at South Philly Brew since Charlie bought out the bar.
But they could’ve easily just taken me to some upper-class, blue-blooded, rich-prick place where I’d have to feel my way in the dark to the finish line.
It puts me on a steep edge. Like they’re up to something more unexpected. Something worse. My senses hum on a taut vibration.
Jane’s collarbones jut out, and she slips each brother a warning look.
The security team is going to talk about this shit for years. Not because I plan to run my mouth about it.
Anyone who isn’t a Cobalt—like Maximoff, Sullivan, my twin brother, like Omega and Epsilon bodyguards, like fucking Tony—watches us from the bar. Not even pretending to be disinterested.
They’re all turned towards this table like my ass on this hot seat is a nine o’clock blockbuster. And they’re viewing it for fucking free.
“Thatcher Alessio Moretti,” Eliot says with the raise of his wine. He knows my middle name. It’s a public fact. But his drawn-out, embellished delivery snakes a chill down my spine.
I stare him down. Remembering the night I picked his drunk ass off the floor—Eliot is destructive. Most of her brothers are like ticking bombs on the verge of explosion.
Just don’t set one off.
If he were my nineteen-year-old wild-hearted brother, I’d rip the bottle out of his hand.
Jane shoots out of her seat and careens forward. “Eliot. You promised you’d be better about this.” She tries to steal the wine.
He yanks back. “I’m not drinking in excess, Jane.”
She reaches further.
He lifts the wine over his head and gasps. “Why so edgy? We’re all just talking. For now.” He winks at me.
I’m not scared.
But I also can’t tell if he’s bluffing. There could be nothing but smoke behind the curtain. For as intensely as they’re studying my stern features, I’m guessing they can’t read me any better than I can them.
Jane snaps at Eliot in French. He responds with less heat in the same language, and while they argue, Charlie tears the wine out of Eliot’s hands.
“Brother,” Eliot glares.
Charlie ignores him and puts the bottle to his lips.
Comms sound in my ear. “Take the wine from Charlie,” Oscar instructs. “He’ll appreciate it.”
Copy that. I listen to Charlie’s bodyguard and extend my hand towards the Merlot.
Charlie scrutinizes me for a long oxygen-caging second. He wipes the corner of his mouth with a finger, his intrusive eyes crawling down me. And then he passes me the wine.
“You have to drink it,” Oscar says.
I almost stiffen. Don’t freeze up like a motherfucking shitbag.
I try to kick my ass into gear, but a nagging voice growls, stay sober. Adding to the mess upstairs in my head, Eliot and Tom’s Epsilon bodyguards start spewing shit on comms.
“Stop helping Thatcher.”
“This shouldn’t be easy for him. He fucked the team.”
They want me to hear their complaints. Or else they’d forget the radio and just turn to Oscar who’s beside them at the bar.
Guilt hammers my ribcage, but I shove it down. I’ve got an objective to see through.
Make a choice.
I swig the wine, and then I lower my radio volume a notch before handing the bottle to Jane.
“Thank you,” she says softly to me and takes the heftiest gulp. Scratch that—three gulps, and just when I think she’s done, a second from taking the bottle, she holds up a finger and swallows more wine.
She has a high tolerance. She’s not approaching drunk. Probably not even buzzed, and I’m glad one of us can down that much right now.
I curve my arm around her chair. Waiting for when she’s ready.
She finally shoves it in my opened hand. “Liquid reinforcements,” she whispers to me, wine trickling down her chin. I wipe the red liquid off with my thumb.
She blushes, and our eyes attach deeper.
Blood pulses in my cock, and I could kiss Jane. I’m a millisecond from dipping my head down—
“Do you have anything to say?” Beckett asks, stealing my attention. He blows a filmy line of smoke upward.
I nod a few times.
He’s calm, but I can’t discount the threatening look in his eye. They’re all protective of their older sister. And I understand how they’d want to guarantee no harm invades her life. Fuckbags after targets after shitheads surround her on a daily basis, and if they need me to prove that I’m not one of them, they don’t even need to command me to jump.
I’ll already be off the ground.
“Yeah,” I nod, about to start talking in length. “Look, I love Jane—”
“That’s funny,” Charlie cuts me off. “Considering a week ago, none of us thought you were even attracted to her.”
It throws me back. Not physically.
I’m mentally wrenched to a moment I shared with Jane.
To the night she told me her brothers and little sister wanted her to “open herself up” to love, and subsequently heartbreak. Because they thought her feelings were one-sided, un-fucking-reciprocated, and that I’d never be interested in her sexually or romantically.
She gushed all of this to me.
And then as I was tying my boots, she said, “I can’t blame them, really.”
I knotted my lace. Thinking she’d mention how I wasn’t easy to read. That I was too stoic for her siblings to conclude anything but disinterest on my end. Or at the very least, that I was a professional bodyguard and I would’ve forced my dick down during the fake-dating op.
But she said, “Your type doesn’t usually fall for my type in popular culture.”
It struck me hard. Painfully. I sent a narrowed look over my shoulder. “Why wouldn’t my type be into you?”
She rolled on her side, pink sheet draped over the curve of her wide hip and belly. Wavy brown hair frizzed wildly around freckled cheeks. Her small breasts exposed and nipples perked—and my cock twitched with an aggressive, primal hunger.
If she was a lion, then I was the animal that wanted to mount the fuck out of her and play around with her until she was one beautiful whimpering mess. Spent and safe and satiated in my arms.
I didn’t want to leave her room. I wished I could listen to her talk while the sun rose and set. Every second. Every day.
But I had to go.
Zero three hundred hours. On the dot. Or else my fucking carriage would morph into a pumpkin.
“It’s just that…” Jane trailed off, giving me a long once-over. Her aching breath pushed her lips apart. She fixated on my dark hair tucked behind my ears and my jawline and my tall, muscular build. “You’re blatantly hot and fit in the realm of Vikings and billboard jocks. I’m—”
“Gorgeous,” I interjected. Not hesitating to cut her off there.
A soft noise left Jane, eyes melting. “I…” Flustered, she sat up slightly on the headboard. “We’ve been thr
ough this. I have a strong love for myself, you know, but I recognize that classically, I’m not the world’s definition of beauty.”
“You’re mine,” I said with power and force. Feeling pissed off, I shifted my glare onto the wall and grabbed my black button-down off the ground. I was boiling.
Not at her.
But at the media outlets, tabloids, and spineless pricks that constantly critiqued Jane’s appearance. That pitted her against whatever the popular body type is of the fucking millennium.
It was horseshit.
Jane went quiet.
I finished buttoning my shirt, and I trekked stringently to the end table. Collecting my things. I holstered my gun on my waistband. “There shouldn’t even be an ideal woman.”
I caught her smile.
She cleared her throat. “I agree.”
We stared at each other for a long time, unsaid things reinforcing more tension and strength between us, and I broke the silence. “If your brothers and sister are assuming that I can’t be attracted to you because I’m classically hotter, then that’s outright fucked up.”
Her siblings never met any of her friends-with-benefits. Including Nate, who looks like an A-list Hollywood actor that spent time shoving kids against lockers in high school. But even if Charlie had shaken hands with Nate, I was sure he’d say that he’d been using Jane.
“My siblings would weigh all probabilities, I think,” Jane said softly. “And maybe it hurts them to assume this. But we’re all smart enough to know that the emotion inside a fact doesn’t make the fact any less true.”
I tried to process that, and I held her gaze in a vice. “It doesn’t make it any less fucked up.”
She tipped her head with a nod. “Vrai.” True.
I’m not like the Cobalts. Her brothers and sister did everything they could to help Jane tear down walls, knowing romantic pain was on the other side, but I’d want to protect her from heartbreak. Not guide her towards that feeling.
So at the sports bar, Charlie’s words are like a rubber band snapping against my eardrum: A week ago, none of us thought you were attracted to her.
I bottle heat in my lungs. “I wasn’t allowed to be attracted to my client publicly, not beyond the op.” I shouldn’t ask the Cobalt brothers anything.
As a bodyguard, it’s inappropriate. But I’m off-duty and her boyfriend. To breach the fortress of this family, you can’t be timid.
And I know I’m not that. “Why were you all so sure that your sister’s feelings were one-sided?”
Jane whips her head to me, smiling. I’m not easy to push over, honey.
“I just didn’t think you’d be into her,” Beckett admits, and to Jane, he says, “I owe you an apology, sis. I’m sorry.”
Ben drops his feet beneath the table. “Me too.”
“It’s okay,” Jane says with a warm smile. “Thank you.”
Charlie pulls at his messy hair, his annoyance visible and on me. “You gave us no indication of liking our sister. I’m not apologizing for that.”
I nod. “You don’t have to.”
Eliot grabs something from behind his back and tosses it down to his brother.
Tom catches what looks like a gold statue, a twinkle in his eye. He flashes a smile in my direction. “For you.”
Muscles stiff and hot, I reach forward and collect the statue. I turn it over in my palm.
I breathe in through my nose. What the fuck. I’m holding a trophy shaped like a snake. The plaque reads Master of Deception with the year engraved below.
Comms crackle. “Flash it to us, Moretti,” Oscar banters.
No chance.
If I acknowledge SFO, the Cobalt brothers will think I’m choosing security over them. I set the trophy on the table and hear Farrow, his voice picked up on Oscar’s radio. “Cobalts are extra as fuck.”
He’s not wrong.
Donnelly enters the line and starts asking questions since he’s not at the bar anymore. Their chatter escalates and starts drowning out Akara, who’s still searching for Quinn.
I click my mic and speak hushed. “Shut the fuck up.”
Comms quiet.
I add, “Thank you.” Then I drop my hand.
Tom leans back with a grin. “You even fooled our mom and dad.”
Weight situates on my strict shoulders. I blame myself for how my relationship with Jane started out on a bed of dishonesty. Us lying to her parents and siblings.
I could’ve pulled the trigger earlier.
I should’ve. Even if they don’t care.
Eliot threads his palms behind his head, lounging back. “You could teach a master class on How to Deceive a Genius.”
My brows cinch in confusion. He’s impressed?
Tom lifts a finger. “I’d enroll.”
They both are. I glance at Jane for confirmation.
She leans in and whispers, “They’re devious little devils.”
Right.
I should be happy that two out of five brothers already somewhat like me. But I’m not jumping for fucking joy that they see me as a third devil in their merry gang of terrors.
Eliot grins. “As would I, Tom.”
Ben lets out a pained sound. “Stop sucking his dick—”
“It was just the tip,” Eliot laughs.
“—he’s a liar,” Ben continues.
One of them cares that I lied.
Eliot is serious in a sudden flash. “Ben—”
“A liar is dating our sister!” Ben motions to me. “That should worry everyone. Why am I the only one in this family who’s upset about that?”
Eliot and Tom share a glance I can’t decrypt. Maybe they’re concerned about Ben or they’re more suspicious of me.
“Hey, kid,” I say.
“He’s not a kid,” Charlie chastises.
I forgot the Cobalts hate that.
I nod, raking a hand down my mouth, and I tell Ben, “I’m being straight forward with you now. I’m sorry I couldn’t before.” I’m lost on how else to right this wrong and rebuild my integrity. But I’m trying.
His eyes redden. He pounds his head back, chin lifted higher. When I’d been the Epsilon lead, I was in charge of protecting the minors. Of Ben. He has a big heart.
He fights for what he feels is right.
But I lost count of all the times I had to inform bodyguards that Ben would be staying late in detention. For fuck’s sake, I’m not even a lead anymore, and I just heard on comms that Winona and Ben got in a fight at Dalton Academy. She jumped on a senior’s back because he called Ben a crybaby pussy.
Jane scoots towards her youngest brother and gathers his hand in hers. “I lied too, Pippy. If you fault Thatcher, then you have to fault me.”
Ben lets go of her hand. “I don’t know anything about him, Jane.”
“We’re about to fix that,” Charlie says smoothly.
Beckett snuffs out his cigarette on an ashtray and then fans out a deck of blue cards on the table. Gold lions are hand-drawn on each one.
Can’t be ordinary playing cards.
For all I know, this could be tarot and Beckett is about to read my future. Rich, poor—I don’t care. I just want her.
Jane steeples her fingers to her lips in focused thought.
“What are these?” I ask them.
Charlie flashes a half-smile. “It’s a game called What Would You Do for Jane Cobalt?”
I cross my arms and nod. I’m Oscar Mike. Ready to move out in whatever direction they point to. But honestly, this isn’t my normal.
Where I come from, we’d throw some punches then crack a beer and laugh about the old rift. Or we’d just never talk again. Grudges have detached friends and family like broken 1000-piece puzzles. Pieces missing or edges too worn to fit back.
At least they’re offering me a shot.
Jane screeches her chair forward. “I request a modification.” She folds her arms on the table. “I’d like it to be called: What Would We Do for Each Other?”
&n
bsp; She wants in.
I almost smile. I’m not stepping on her toes or holding her back. Not unless this spins into a place that scares her to death.
“It won’t be easy, sis,” Beckett warns.
“I’m prepared.” She waves to the cards. “How do we play?”
Eliot slides down onto the seat. “Pick a card and complete the instruction.”
Sounds too simple. “That’s it?” I ask.
“You won’t flip all the cards tonight,” Charlie explains. “Whenever we tell you to turn over one or two or five, you’ll do it. Until you’ve gone through the entire deck.”
I get it. I finish the game and I gain their respect or trust or both, and without wavering, I turn to Jane. “You pick.”
She drums her lips, then slides out a left-center card. She flips it over, and I narrow my gaze on the gold script.
Tell us the number of people you’ve had intercourse with.
Unholy fuck.
I rub my mouth.
She intakes a sharp breath.
I haven’t even told Jane my number, and she hasn’t told me hers. Now we’re about to announce this shit in front of security, her cousins, and brothers.
But based on the NDAs her sexual partners had to sign, I can estimate her number. Which is probably why this task exists.
To put me on the same footing.
Eliot squints at the card. He has trouble reading—it’s one of the first things I had to tell new bodyguards on his detail. His dyslexia screws with how he sees letters. In the booth, he whispers in Tom’s ear, and Tom whispers back.
“Really?” Jane snaps at Charlie and Beckett, the two oldest.
Charlie taps the card with his cane. “If Thatcher can’t complete this, then he’ll drown every time he’s with our family.”
“Around forty,” I announce my number. Suddenly. Just like that.
“Around forty?” Ben glares. “You can’t remember the exact number of girls you’ve slept with?”
“People.” Beckett calmly corrects his brother and lights another cigarette. He’s being inclusive.
I’m straight, and I’ve only slept with girls. But I don’t feel a need to emphasize this, so I just tell Ben, “I didn’t keep count. Around forty is my best guess.” That’s all I’ve got.
Tom rests his arm on his brother’s shoulder. “Higher than yours, Eliot.”
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