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“I don’t want you to,” she whispers, threading our fingers together.
She said something along those lines at the restaurant before everything got fucked up. It shocked the hell out of me then. Not that she wanted us, but her admitting to it. My girl is growing in boldness concerning her own aspirations. I fucking love that.
“Good,” I say, kissing her forehead. “Wells is already pissed, and if I had to tie you to my bed to keep you here, it wouldn’t be pretty. The Chief would combust.”
She warbles her musical laugh as though I’m joking. I would not hesitate to lock her ass up, but I’m pretty sure she’d forgive me because she’s just as twisted as I am. Case in point, our steamy conference call with the fam. She could’ve dropped that ball at any damn second. She didn’t.
My kinky girl.
“Why is he mad?” she asks.
Same reason you’re freaking out. Probably shouldn’t share that.
My phone buzzes in my jeans, saving me from offering a response. I got dressed while Ace was turning in circles and sputtering nonsense, assuming a summoning was coming.
Wrenching it from my pocket, I flip the screen toward her to show the incoming call. “Speak of the devil. This should be good.”
Wells’s voice blares through the speaker the second I swipe the Answer button. “The fuck did you do, Graves?”
Maintaining my casual stature against the counter, legs crossed at the ankles, phone to my ear, eyes on the most gorgeous creature in existence, I feign confusion. “I’ve got fifteen minutes, Chief. Meeting is at four. Check the schedule.”
“Frank Carver has been blowing up my goddamn phone. And when I finally fucking answered …” He’s probably pinching his nose, willing himself not to rage.
What’s it gonna be, candy or scotch?
“Hot. Yoga?” he finally grits out.
Ahh. Yeah. I bet he secretly sees the cleverness in my euphemism. And since that was part of the conversation, I’m guessing Frank may be wiser to my antics than I portrayed to the Carver princess.
But I’ve got a story, and I’m sticking to it. “Multitasking, Chief.”
“Fucking hell,” he growls as I step into the bedroom, waving a hand at the beauty still in the towel so she’ll hurry it up while I take my lashing. “Tell me that when you told him to piss out of his daughter’s life, you weren’t fucking her.”
“Is that what you want to hear?”
“Jesus Christ,” he hisses. “Motherfucker.” But then a crystal-clear huffed chuckle filters through the phone, so I stay quiet to see where he takes us. After a stretched-out beat, he finally regains his composure, swapping hats—the angered Chief for compassionate mentor. “You know I support you telling him to give up the politician bullshit and claiming her. She belongs here.”
Wells has unquestionably noticed her internal war. He doesn’t miss things. And now that he views Celeste as family, it’s surely pissed him off as well. That’s aside from the protectiveness he has regarding the way Frank spoke about his men. But my methods aren’t exactly his style, which is what lies between those words.
“I had my reasons,” I say. That’s what Wells wants to hear. If I apologized for the mess that he’s dealing with, he’d be livid. And disappointed.
“Fine. He said you informed him of her security team working for us in a follow-up text. Looks like everything is set in motion to move forward. See you in a few.” He hangs up, and I know that’s the last of the rebuking I’ll encounter for my steam-room mischief. We’ve got a long road ahead regardless. No sense in squabbling over tactics.
A few minutes later, Celeste saunters out of the bathroom in the same burnt-orange cashmere outfit she donned earlier, hair in a damp, messy bun, luscious lips matching her attire, and eyes bright. So damn pretty.
Taking her hand, I tow her downstairs for the family meeting. If we don’t get near people quickly, I’ll ravage her in the room like a starving savage. My cock is adamant that I’ll never get enough of her. Although even the nights holding her when she was healing—her tucked inside my arms, espresso hair fanned across my chest, wildflowers and honeysuckle enwrapping me—were more quenching than I’d ever imagined any moment could be. Enlightening.
Everyone, other than Natasha and Felicity, is gathered in the family room when we arrive, fire blazing in the hearth, drinks and snacks set out on the square coffee table, which sits in the center of three couches in a boxy U arrangement. I’m intrigued because Ivy seemed pissed earlier, but the warmth greeting us doesn’t read as an angry meeting.
Just in case, I start us off on the right foot when Celeste and I plop onto the empty couch. “Let’s get to the important stuff first, High Society. I saw you put Pictionary on the schedule for tonight.”
“Yes,” she says with absolute conviction. “We need game nights that don’t involve betting. Training for how these nights will be when Felicity is older.”
“That’s not the issue,” I say, offering Celeste the choice between a sports drink and water. She undoubtedly needs to hydrate. “I want veto power up-front. You, Ty, and Ace are not permitted to be on a team together,” I assert, to which Wells and Gage chuckle.
“Why the fuck not?” Ivy snarks.
My distraction methods are flawless. Wells shifts his gaze to me in respect. I’m guessing he was nervous about the meeting agenda as well. Ivy raging is treacherous for us all. Better she wastes her energy on trivial shit.
