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“It was on the news this morning. He’s engaged to leggy brunette.” I wait in silence while Nyx processes the information. The voices of news reporters softly talking in the background carry through, and I know she’s flicking through channels, looking for the story.
“Holy. Shit. He didn’t? No. Fucking. Way.” Nyx falls silent while she watches the same story I’ve already seen. “Fuck this shit. I’m moving up this weekend. Make room for me.”
Well. Shit. I can just see where this is going to go.
“Nyx—” I start, but she cuts me off.
“Forget it, Devin. I’m coming up. Talk to the guys, get them to help me move my stuff in, okay?”
“They’re not my personal moving company. They do have lives, you know.” I roll my eyes at myself because I can hear her witty comeback before she ever speaks it.
“Baby, you are their lives now.”
“I’ll ask, but I make no promises. You just might have to haul your own shit up a million flights of stairs.”
“Bitch,” Nyx mutters.
“Whore,” I retort.
We talk until I’m well and late for work. After hanging up, I decide I need a personal day and call off under the guise of being sick, which isn’t a total lie. I was feeling rather nauseated earlier. Besides, with Nyx moving in, I need to find a new home for my books and make some space. Fuck, I also need to find a new home for my new favorite toys. The woman really does have no boundaries.
Cole
Rage. Frustration. Confusion. Desire. These are the feelings muddling my mind and tearing at my soul. I push open the door to my office, a little harder than intended—okay, a lot harder—causing it to bounce off the wall and swing back in my direction. The whole thing only serves to piss me off even further, evident by the way I walk through the threshold, the knob gripped in my hold so tight my knuckles have turned white. I turn and slam the large heavy steel, wood, and glass door, wincing, minutely, at the loud bang echoing through the room.
The tie around my neck suddenly feels too tight, and a lump forms in my throat, threatening to suffocate me. I brace one hand on my desk and loosen the knot of my tie with the other.
A rolling boil of unadulterated rage builds low in my stomach, moving higher into my chest. My body vibrates from my attempt to contain the overwhelming tension and anger desperately trying to escape. Unable to hold it inside anymore, I slap my hands down on my desk and swipe them to the side, sending papers and anything else in their path flying to the floor. Better unfeeling objects than the people I truly want to send flying.
“Bad morning?” a taunting voice asks from behind me.
I don’t turn around—I don’t need to; I know who’s there—instead, I stand, transfixed, in front of my desk. Hunched forward, I brace myself with my hands gripping tight to the edge, my head down, eyes closed, and inhale deep cleansing breaths of cool air.
“Why the fuck are you here?” I ask, not turning around.
“We need to talk, asshole,” another—angrier—voice says.
I knew this was going to happen. It was only a matter of time before they’d all show up. I just never thought they’d want to have this out in my office.
Shaking my head, I let out a defeated sigh and turn around to lean against my desk.
Dante, Otis, and Lucian sit across the room, each with their own version of a pissed off expression plastered to their faces.
Pressure builds behind my eyes—the first telltale signs of a migraine—and I can already see how this is going to play out. I pinch the bridge of my nose, attempting to relieve some of the pressure. “Forget it,” I murmur and opt for the cure found on the minibar instead. “If we’re doing this, we’re drinking.”
I grab four glasses and drop ice into three. I pour a double shot of bourbon into the one with no ice, and before anyone can say anything, I down its contents. Once the glass is effectively empty, I add ice and pour two fingers of liquor in each glass and bring them to the center table the guys are seated around.
“Take a sip, and then you can start in,” I say and drink half my glass.
They each eye me with skepticism in their gazes—not that I don’t deserve it, I’m sure that I most likely do—but all the same, they do as I say, picking up their glasses and taking a sip.
Lucian is the first to break the silent stares, putting his glass down with a little too much force, causing some of the amber liquid to splash over the rim and dot the table. “You’re a fucking selfish, spoiled, arrogant, insipid prick.”
“Insipid? That’s a big word for you, Lucian. Are you sure you know what it means?” I ask, keeping my expression schooled into one of apathy.
Lucian’s lips thin, his brows dip low, and his body visibly vibrates with barely checked anger.
I don’t take my eyes off his, silently challenging him to say something, anything. Give me a reason to react.
