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That’s a lot to reap from a smell, but I’m trained to sniff people out. And as intoxicating as her scent is, it reeks of secrets. A princess living off Daddy’s money, on the prowl for a husband to assume that role, and mixed up in something she shouldn’t be.
I can sense it.
She’s so damn fake. So nauseatingly perfect.
I’m not against the rich. Shit, I have more money than I know what to do with, and it keeps rolling in. But I’ve earned every damn cent. Worked my ass off. Risked my life. Sold my soul. My wealth is dripping with my blood and sweat. Completely deserved.
Celeste doesn’t earn. She spends what isn’t hers. There’s nothing I loathe more, except maybe a person who pretends they’re something they aren’t. She checks both boxes.
She acts so confident and strong—easy when everything is handed to you. She’s more breakable than she lets on.
And, fuck, do I want to break her. If only to crack her open and peek inside. That’s why I asked her if that lighter, fresh-faced, dancing-on-the-stairs version was her last night. Her breathing sped up with that question, nervous. I’d like to think it was me who made her pant, but I’m thinking she was fretting that I could see whatever she was hiding.
Still, the heat rolling off her and that sweet scent were exhilarating. I wanted to tackle her, wreck her, graze my fingers over her voluptuous curves, fist her thick hair, and watch those plump lips wrap around my cock.
Best fucking way to keep her from opening her goddamn sassy mouth.
“Liam. Now,” Wells barks even though I’m ten steps from his office with twenty seconds remaining before I’m late.
“I’m right here, Chief,” I counter, crossing the threshold into the large space, simple with his live-edge Koa wood desk, matching bookshelves, and molasses-brown leather furniture.
While Ivy and I designed the majority of the rooms in this house, she and Wells decorated this office together. And she nailed it, down to the antique record-player cabinet quietly piping Mozart. So Wells.
He scowls, although he’s clearly not mad. There’s a playful glimmer. Ivy must’ve given it up good this morning.
Jesus, I love that girl. She’s made us all better, but softening Wells is her most miraculous feat.
“And almost late,” he says, chucking some Sour Skittles into his mouth.
“On time, almost late, not quite early. Same thing,” I argue, settling into one of the leather chairs and crossing my outstretched legs.
“Always such a goddamn motherfucker,” he growls, and I feel the love. Since he’s unable to resist furthering his point, he then throws in, “Early is on time, and on time is late.” We swap a lopsided grin, which is damn near a weeping hug of affection between us, as the phone trills on his desktop. “I’ll do the talking unless I denote otherwise.”
“Understood,” I confirm. He’d stare at me until I verbally responded anyway. Even if we missed the call. Stubborn fucker.
Our conference this morning is with Frank Carver, which, now that I think about it, needs to be kept confidential from certain houseguests. Frank is Celeste’s father. Wells must come to that same conclusion because he points to the door while I’m rising to shut it.
As soon as it clicks, Wells answers, connecting through a speaker. “Good morning, Frank.”
“Wells, thanks for taking time out of your busy day for me.”
“It’s never a bother,” Wells replies. “Liam Graves is sitting in for this. He’s been diligently digging into the leads with the Skulls, which he’ll share momentarily. He’s also the reason we’ve been out in front of this mess, which I’m sure you remember. Any developments on your end?”
Always extending credit. That’s the thing about Wells—he’s an unselfish leader. Although he’d never classify himself that way, he’d be wrong. He’s worked harder than the rest of us in many respects, had more on the line, more rights to the fortune and privilege, but never once considered not sharing it equally with Ty, Gage, and me.
“Not since the break-in. And I know you didn’t get much from them.” Frank sighs. “Otherwise, it’s thankfully been relatively quiet.”
In October, the Carver family home security system was breached because the home was empty, and we allowed it. We instructed the team surveilling to watch the thugs briefly before seizing them, in the hopes we’d gain intel on what they were hunting. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as fruitful as we would’ve preferred. We even held the guys for Gage, who was overseas with Wells and Ivy, visiting the Carver doll. If Gage can’t torture information out of someone, there isn’t anything to acquire. He’s skilled and patient.
“The only things they gave us were that the Skulls hired them, which we’d already suspected. And that they were in search of a black book,” Wells adds. “They had no idea what was in this coveted book.”
I connect my eyes with his for the go-ahead before probing. There’s a missing piece here, something we’re not considering, and it’s bugging the ever-living hell out of me. “Hi, Frank. Liam here.”
“Hey, Liam. Thanks for your work on this,” Frank says.
“No thanks needed,” I assure him. “I’ve been scouring the dark web more pointedly since that break-in, and there’s chatter about the book, mixed in with some indecipherable information. You’re sure you can’t think of what they’d be referring to? Deals gone wrong? Associates misplaced? A log of favors? A ledger of dues? Anything?”
“I’m not fucking stupid enough to keep a log of anything I wouldn’t willingly broadcast,” he snarls in frustration. I don’t take it personally. This is a fucked-up situation. “And The Order is not in the habit of working with or even cooperating with the Skulls.”
