Kellen, traitor that he is, picks up the open bag of flour and pours a tiny mountain into his hand and pats the mountain right onto my head. “I’m afraid you’re not very intimidating, Piper.”
I scoff and launch a handful of my own at Kellen. I’mthrowing flour at the damn prince.His parents would probably lose it. But I don’t have time to consider that more before Elliot and Nolan have joined in and chaos erupts.
I launch a counterattack, but it’s three on one and within a minute, the kitchen looks like a crime scene at a gluten warehouse. I lay on the floor laughing endlessly.
Elliot eventually helps me to my feet. “You look like a very confused ghost.”
I shake off the flour on my clothes. “I’ll haunt you all.”
Nolan’s shirt is a lost cause. Kellen’s hair is gray at the temples. Elliot’s nose is dusted like a powdered donut. We stand in the ruin of the palace kitchen, catching our breath. My cheekshurt from smiling and my lungs burn from laughing. The weight I’ve carried on my shoulders—the constant vigilance, the secrets, the performance—has lifted completely.
Kellen leans back against the counter and watches us with a warm, private smile. “You’re all out of control.”
I shuffle closer to Kellen, flour-dusted and wild-haired. He’s got that rare, unguarded smile reserved for moments when he thinks no one’s watching. I expect him to say something clever or command us to clean up the mess we’ve made, but instead, he reaches out and wipes a streak of flour from my cheek with the edge of his thumb.
Maybe it’s the adrenaline from the kitchen battle, but I don’t see the forehead kiss coming at all. His lips brush the crown of my head so lightly I almost wonder if I imagined it, but the sensation travels all the way down my spine, setting off a nervous system fire drill.
I’m barely able to inhale before Nolan, still looking like a bouncer who got caught in a bakery burglary, hooks his arm securely around my waist and pivots me to face him. In one smooth motion, he cups the back of my neck, leans in, and plants a soft, definitive kiss right on my cheekbone. He lingers there for a beat, long enough for my heart to trip over itself, before letting me go.
By this point I’m expecting Elliot to play it safe, to maintain his usual perimeter of mild amusement and military-grade self-control. But he’s already closing the distance, eyes bright and a little daring. He brushes a few strands of hair out of my face. For a split second his fingers linger at my temple, quietly checking if I’m okay with all this. I am, obviously, but I’m also not used to this kind of attention—three alphas, one omega, all moving in sync and making it look like the most natural thing in the world.
Elliot’s hand is steady as he tilts my chin and then kisses my other cheek, sweet and unhurried, like this was the plan allalong. He pulls back with a grin that’s infuriatingly satisfied. My brain short-circuits trying to process what just happened.
For someone who lives on stages, I’ve never been more flustered by a crowd of three. I’m barely holding it together, caught in the gravitational pull of their combined adoration and pheromones, and for the first time in longer than I can remember, I actually want to stay in the moment instead of ducking out or deflecting with a joke. There’s no expectation, no implicit demand for more—just the pure, chaotic affection of our not-quite-a-pack.
I want to be cool and to banter, but I can’t. I’m blushing so hard I must look like a strawberry buried in snow. The three of them all watch me with different flavors of fondness.
The timer dings. Kellen shoves the trays into the oven, then wipes flour off my chin with his thumb.
I clear my throat. “Should we, uh. Clean up?”
Nolan smirks. “Probably.”
We do, and then end up on the kitchen floor afterward, with our backs to the cabinets, eating fresh cinnamon rolls and telling stories that get less and less coherent the later it gets.
CHAPTER 12
Elliot
My phone vibratesso hard against the nightstand it nearly launches itself off the edge. I grope for it, an action that sends my water glass clattering to the floor. The glass doesn’t shatter, but my optimism does.
Forty-seven missed notifications. Seven from the estate security channel.
The first line of the topmost message: SECURITY BREACH. URGENT.
I sit up so fast my vision tunnels, heart punching a frenetic beat against my ribs. There’s the usual acid wash of adrenaline, but this time it’s laced with something sourer: embarrassment. I’m supposed to be the guy preventing these breaches, not the idiot reading about them in real time.
But nothing feels wrong. No alarm siren, no panicked footsteps down the carpeted hallway of Kellen’s manor. Just the antique grandfather clock in the sitting room down the hall, ticking smugly away.
I thumb open the security app and hit the feed for Kellen’s suite across the hall. The interior night-vision cam shows a burrito of duvets and a single shock of blond hair sticking out of the top: Kellen, asleep and alive.
I exhale. Barely.
The next message is from Nolan:I’m on it. Stay in room.
He never says more than three words in a text, so this is a dissertation. I check the timestamp: two minutes ago. He’s got a head start.
There’s a DM from an unrecognized number. The preview is a single sentence:How much is this worth to you?
