Page 68 of Knocked Up By the Silver Foxes

“I walked into the bedroom, duffel still on my shoulder. Took my boots off at the door, like always. And there they were. Her and some guy. On our bed. Her face—she didn’t even have the decency to look surprised. Just annoyed I’d interrupted.”

Harper closes her eyes. A muscle flickers in her jaw.

“She didn’t know him. Just some stranger. Doesn’t matter. It wasn’t about who he was. It was about what she did. Like it was nothing. Like me coming home, me seeing her—that was just a minor inconvenience to her fun.”

“She never apologized?”

“Said it was because I was ‘never around.’ Like that excused it.” I snort. “Like sixteen-hour service weeks and my passport getting stamped more than hers made me less real.”

“That’s not an excuse,” Harper says sharply.

“No. But love—when it’s real—it doesn’t just disappear when it’s broken.” I look at her. “It sticks around. In the way you notice someone’s favorite coffee cup in a cupboard, years later. In the way you still know how they take their eggs, even when you don’t share a kitchen. Once it’s there, it doesn’t vanish. It just... hardens. Turns brittle.”

“And Monica?”

“She uses it. Uses the fact that I still remember how she likes her steak done. Uses the fact that I won’t badmouth her in front of others. Uses it to walk back into my life like nothing happened. Like she can take pieces of me whenever she feels like it.”

Harper reaches across the space between us. Places her hand over mine.

“I’m sorry you went through that.”

Her voice is steady, but her thumb moves—once—over my knuckles. A pulse of warmth.

“Long time ago,” I say. But it’s not. Not really. “But Monica’s like a shadow. Doesn’t matter how much light you bring in—she’s still there, waiting for a crack.”

Harper’s grip tightens. Just slightly. Enough that I feel it in my chest.

I turn my hand under hers, link our fingers. Then lift it, press my lips to the soft skin of her knuckles. Her breath hitches. Her eyes darken.

And then, voice low, “And Killian. And Maddox. How do you feel about that? Sharing me.”

I don’t drop her gaze.

“It feels natural.” My voice is rough. Honest.

She blinks. “It does?”

“Yeah. Because you’re not divided, Harper. You’re not split between us. To me, you’re mine—and you’re theirs. We don’t trade you. We hold you together.”

“That’s... not how most men would see it.”

“I’m not most men.” I shift closer. “I’ve seen the way you carry yourself—with respect, even when no one’s watching. I know you wouldn’t play with trust. And I know Killian and Maddox—they’d cut off their arms before letting you feel unsafe. I trust them. And I trust you.”

She flushes. A slow, deep blush spreading from her neck to her cheeks. Not embarrassment. Heat. Recognition.

“You don’t get jealous?”

“I do.” I don’t lie. “But not because I fear losing you. I get jealous because I want more—more of you, more of this. But knowing you’re with them? Knowing they lo…feel the same way about you? It doesn’t lessen what I feel. You’re worth it.”

She exhales. A soft, breathless sound.

And I can’t wait anymore.

I step forward, close the space, frame her face in my hands. She leans into me like she’s been waiting. Her hands come up, grip the front of my shirt—black henley, sleeves rolled to the elbows, ink crawling down my forearms.

My mouth crashes into hers. Not gentle. Not sweet. Hungry. She opens for me, meets me with the same fire, same need. Her tongue sweeps against mine, a sharp spark of taste—salt, wine, her. Her legs shift, spread slightly on the stool as I press closer. I run my hands down her sides, feel the curve of her hips, the steel beneath the softness.

She moans into my mouth. A low, raw sound.