Page 66 of My Ex's Billionaire Brothers

She giggles, despite herself. “Like you’d know.”

“Listen. I joked my way across half the East Coast because big feelings are not my thing.” I swallow, partly because I’m not sure how this will go, and partly because I feel like a fool. But I can’t ignore what I feel anymore. “Anya, I’m in deep. When I saw you tear up at dumpling night, something clicked. This isn’t casual for me. I…care. A lot.” My throat rasps the admission.

She inhales sharply. “It isn’t casual for me either. That’s what terrifies me.”

“Terrifying is fine.” I nod at the suitcase. “Running is not. Were you going back to Calvin?”

Horror flashes across her face. “No! God, no. I planned to pawn the ring and vanish somewhere in Savannah.”

The honesty stings, but it’s better than the alternative. “Fine, if?—”

“Wait, you thought I’d go back to him after everything?”

“I worried you’d think him showing up here was a sign he still cares about you.”

She shakes her head, her lips curl in disgust. “It’s a sign that he’s humiliated, nothing more.”

I nod slowly, still trying to think clearly. “If you need to run off, I won’t stop you. But it would break me.” My voice cracks. Concussion fog plus heartbreak is a hellish cocktail. “Maybe that’s selfish.”

“Not selfish. Sweet. And scary.” She wipes her own tears now, sniffles. “Where does that leave us?”

“That’s a good question.” I sit back, trying to think. Unfortunately, this damn concussion is making it harder. “If you need to run off and get a clean slate, I get that. It sounds like a relief after all of this. It’s not my place to tell you what to do, kitten. Your life, your choice. Always.”

She swallows hard. “You mean that? You’d support me leaving everyone behind?”

Those words chip away at my heart. “I support your happiness. Period.”

Anya sighs and plunks her head against my shoulder. I do my best not to tip over from it. “Thank you, Hunter.”

She’s really leaving. Fuck. “Anytime, kitten. Anytime.”

28

THEO

Hunter’s muffledvoice slips beneath Anya’s bedroom door like a slow tide. A few hushed words, a sniff, then a murmured joke only she can hear.

I stand ten feet away, back against the wall, arms folded so tightly my shoulders ache. Gage paces opposite me, broad frame shadowing the seashell night-light. Every third lap he peers at the closed door, jaw clenched as if the wood itself is an adversary.

Downstairs, Mrs. Markoff rattles pie tins with unnecessary vigor. The clank of metal is her war drum against nerves. Mr. Markoff’s heavier footfalls prowl the foyer—he’s re-holstered the revolver but hasn’t put it away. The entire house feels like a shaken snow globe. Glitter still spiraling, settlement nowhere in sight.

I’m clenching my teeth. It’s hard not to after that.

I move to adjust the knot at my throat—a habit from boardroom days, even though I’m wearing a simple Henley rather than atie. No knot to adjust, but old habits, I suppose. “We give them space,” I remind myself aloud for the second time.

Gage stops pacing long enough to arch a brow. “We’ve given them fifteen minutes of space,” he growls under his breath. “That’s fourteen more than Hunter ever uses to fix anything.”

“It’s Anya who needs the time, not Hunter.” I check my watch again. I know the time. It slips by slower and faster than I’d like it to right now.

Fresh footsteps tromp upstairs—Mrs. Markoff, apron strings fluttering, face pale. She glances at Anya’s door with mother-radar, then turns to us. “Boys,” she says in a hush that still carries authority, “my husband and I are going to a friend’s house tonight. Give you the run of the house, so you can figure out…” She flaps one flour-dusted hand, searching for a neutral noun. “…everything.”

I blink. “Ma’am, you don’t have to vacate your own home. Calvin’s gone, and we’re checking doors.”

Gage firmly declares, “We’re staying up all night, regardless of whether you’re here or somewhere else. We won’t let him breach the perimeter again.”

She pets a strand of hair back into her bun. “I know. But nerves are frayed. Alexei thinks a change of walls for twelve hours will keep him from throttling someone.” A rueful smile. “Or from polishing that pistol again.”

Gage frowns. “Your husband is okay with leaving Anya here with—” He waves at the hallway and, implicitly, at us.