Page 78 of Bared

Nothing pounded the point better than his nerve endings, battling to simultaneously stab through his skin as they hurried into the crosswalk in front of the pub. The place was loud and proud about its Irish theme, which he counted as a consolation prize from the universe. His whisky reward might be closer than he originally assumed.

But first things first. Like staying way the hell on top of his game to ensure this little rendezvous didn’t go tits up. To make that happen, his job was to make sure a lot of other things didn’t. Things like Jayd being recognized by anyone in the place—most of all, a certain Arcadian asshole on the hunt for his missing property.

He could’ve done without that thought, which had him seeing red all over again. More importantly, not seeing the situation—or Carris—as clearly as he needed to. In any other time or place, he even wondered if he and Carris would’ve been buddies. The brotherhood of warriors surpassed a lot of borders, branches, and flags on shoulders—until a soldier gave in and drank the Kool-Aid of radicalization. After that, all bets were off. One wondered if they’d ever see their friend on the sunshiny side of society again or watch them die on national TV after they took hostages to make their point.

Trystan Carris definitely had a point to make.

And thankfully—or perhaps not—Brick knew what it was. More accurately, whom the man was hellbent on using to make it. The knowledge brought him his greatest advantage but his hugest weakness.

This time, he really cared about the asset.

No.

He’d cared about her back when they’d escaped Gervais by taking cover in a kink dungeon. That designation had faded once he slid his fingers into her pussy. Then even more when he stroked her into a stunning orgasm. Then even more when she let him shackle her to a kitchen cupboard and slide his body into hers. And once he’d spilled himself inside her…

Yeah. Caring for her was just a starter ingredient in this crazy cake.

So what the hell was he calling the dough now?

And did he really have an extra five seconds, let alone the five hours he likely needed, to unpack that answer?

Thank fuck for excuses that were as well-timed as they were solid. While letting the gift horse gallop through his mind and trample the Jayd-themed mush, he reached for the pub’s heavy door and waited for her to enter. Less than three steps inside the place—a predictable amalgam of dark woods, green trims, and Celtic signs—he was right back by her side. If he could’ve gotten away with ordering her all the way behind him, that’d be happening already, but he spared himself the effort. Some mission objectives were simply impossible.

He focused on chalking up the positives so far. It was Sunday night, soon to be Monday morning, a fact honored by the pub’s mellow population. Secondly, Jayd wasn’t taking advantage of the light crowd and tearing across the room in a this-is-twenty-four-years-too-late fervor. Not that she wouldn’t be soon, but he could breathe easy for now. Of course, acknowledging his reprieve meant he’d probably just jinxed it…

“Daughter? Ma fille chérie?”

Jinx.

He was certain fate itself showed up to laugh the word at him, though Brick barely cared once Jayd broke loose with a similar sound. As one of the Irish slang signs on the wall said, Savage. Perfect fit. The woman’s laugh was savage: a mixture of breath and volume capable of knifing through a man’s guts until they’d bled their vitality down to his balls. Yeah, even in a situation like this. Even when said man stood by as said woman repeated the laugh for another man.

All right, so said other man happened to be her father.

And yeah, Brick jotted that mental note down in permanent ink.

One look at the man, even before Jayd stumbled toward him, was all it took to figure it out. The genetics were all there, so blatant they were startling. As daughter and father clasped hands and stared at each other for the first time, Brick used his imagination to add in longer hair, a high-end shave, and a pair of breasts for Louis. With those enhancements, it would look like the princess was peering into a mirror. LaBarre’s prominent cheekbones were the same. So were his high forehead and tapered chin. Even the man’s posture was similar to Jayd’s, full of restless energy.

But all of those factors were runners-up to the ultimate revelation.

LaBarre’s eyes.

It wasn’t just their color, which matched Jayd’s arresting aqua down to the opalescent specks. It was their settings, the deep wells becoming perfect cradles for ungodly long lashes and exotically tapered hoods.

But if he’d learned anything from years of deep recon sweeps, the first glance rarely counted as the right perception.

He didn’t want to be right about that—but as Jayd hauled the man close for a tearful grip of a hug, he already sensed that he was.

It wasn’t the certainty about LaBarre being Jayd’s actual papa. It was everything else they were supposed to be accepting about this meeting. Factors like the man’s insistence on this exact venue, when it seemed LaBarre hadn’t been here before either. And why did the man look like he’d just crawled out of bed and thrown on clothes from the floor, when he claimed he had a business engagement earlier?

But the biggest tell, just like before, was what Brick observed in LaBarre’s eyes.

Correction: what he didn’t see there.

Like alertness. Or comprehension. Or anything beyond surface-level joy. No, not even that. The man looked at Jayd but didn’t see her. He was standing here, but his mind was clearly parked somewhere else. Like Ohio.

But Jayd noticed none of that. And why should she? The woman had turned her life upside down and her heart inside out to make this moment happen. But she’d learned about LaBarre less than a week ago. To be fair, maybe he’d been fantasizing about this for nearly twenty-five years. The guy had the complete right to cash in his dazed and confused card.

“Paipanne.” It was barely a whisper, but Jayd stamped both syllables with absolute certainty. Her shoulders shook as she crumpled against the man, though Brick refrained from stepping over once she clamped her arms around LaBarre’s neck. In true pixie form, the woman wept like a flower but had the strength of a rainforest vine. “Creator be praised. Mon merveilleux père.”