Page 42 of Every Eligible Man

The same Grimwald whose sons I've humiliated. The same Grimwald whose naked form still haunts my nightmares. The same Grimwald who runs a farm at the edge of the kingdom...

A farm with workers.

Working men.

Men who might have well-worn boots and dirt under their fingernails and ferrets named Gerald.

"Stop the carriage," I say softly.

"My lady?"

"Stop the carriage."

I'm already moving, throwing open the door before we've fully stopped. Gerald scrambles to keep his perch, tail bottle-brushing with an excitement that matches my own.

They're here.

I don't know how I know, but I know.

My masked strangers. My three perfect disasters. They're here, three miles from my castle, and they've been here the whole time.

"We're going to that farm," I announce, striding down the road with murder and lust burning equally in my chest. "Right now. And Mira?"

"Yes, my lady?"

"Bring the boot, the glove, and extra restraints." I let my smile turn feral. "I have a feeling we're about to find exactly what we're looking for."

And when I do?

They're going to pay for making me wait.

The Search Reaches the Farm

Slade

Grimwald Acres has never seen this much panic in one afternoon.

From my hiding spot behind a stack of feed sacks in the barn, I have an excellent view of the chaos unfolding in the yard. Baron Grimwald is stomping around like a constipated bull in a powdered wig, face purple with fury.

"Hide them! Hide the farmhands! If that royal slut finds out our stable boys are the ones who defiled her..."

"Father, please," Brant interrupts, adjusting his codpiece for what I count as the fifteenth time today. "She's not here for the farmhands. She's here because she changed her mind about us.”

I exchange a glance with Ash, who's wedged into the shadows of an empty horse stall, his massive frame somehow folded into a space half his size. His expression says what we're both thinking: these idiots have no idea.

Garrick is doing something deeply uncomfortable near the horse trough, squatting, stretching, making small grunting noises that I wish I could unhear.

"I've been practicing," he announces to no one in particular. "Practicing the left curve. If I tuck it just right and think about sad things, it sort of... tilts."

"That's not how anatomy works," Brant hisses.

"It's working! Look!"

Garrick yanks down his trousers right there in the yard.

I look away. Not fast enough. That image is now seared into my memory forever.

"That's not a curve, that's a cramp," Brant says, covering his eyes. "Put it away before the pigs lose their appetites."