Page 53 of Stealing Blinds

I deserve this because, occasionally, I’ve been kind of an asshole—a fun, creative, entertaining asshole, whose schemes have resulted in at least two marriages, but an asshole nonetheless. Still, why the hell would they put her through this? She is completely flipping out.

“I have to get out of here,” she mutters, and that anxiety plaguing her is my undoing.

Without completely thinking it through, I grab her by the throat and crash my lips to hers. She’s shocked at first, but then she whimpers with what sounds like solace and relief, her body growing more pliant and relaxed with every stroke of our tongues. This morning was not a fluke. Pure fucking sparks and magic in a simple kiss.

And purring. She’s absolutely purring.

She tastes like rich vanilla and a shot of luxury whiskey. Crème brûlée and the river card that wins the whole goddamn game.

Her pulse batters under my fingertips—maybe from the adrenaline of being caged, but, fuck, I hope it’s because she knows this is where she belongs.

Since we’re still dealing with sirens, flashing lights, and her claustrophobia, I pull back and rest my forehead against hers. “You’re okay. I’ve got you, Sly.”

“You have to stop doing that,” she whispers, just loud enough for me to catch above the racket, her eyes glued to my lips.

“I’m not sure I can. I’ll do whatever is necessary to take care of you. If you need a knee-weakening kiss to calm the hell down, then I’m your man. Devoted to the cause.”

She smiles, but it’s brittle. More of that pain from this morning. I could kill that asshole for what he did to her. Once I get her out of this mess, I probably will kill him. Maybe with his game-winning hockey stick. That would be a nice touch. And still, I don’t think that will be enough retribution for everything he stole from her. She’s terrified of trusting anyone.

Her sister isn’t a whole lot better, but I’ll try to hold my tongue since Sylvie wants to forgive her.

Eventually, even the strained curve of her lips fades. “Once something is left on the table, you don’t keep picking it back up.”

“Well, there’s the issue.” I pause because my hand is still on her throat, and we’re having this conversation in what might as well resemble a lockdown cage at a bank robbery, though none of that seems to matter. “I am a card shark. I never lose. I know when to fold and when to go all in because there’s a windfall at stake. And I would never leave you on the table, Sylvie Palmer.”

She gapes at me for a good twenty seconds, her chest heaving and her eyes flecked with conflict and red and blue speckles from the swirling alarm lights, until she finally shakes her head. “I couldn’t hear you over the sirens, so let’s just stick to the original plan. And please don’t allude to us being anything more in front of your family.”

Knife in gut.

“I need you to leave it on the table,” she tacks on, her voice quavering. A plea.

And the knife twists.

As if to punctuate the prank angle at the most perfect moment, the chorus of Steve Miller Band’s “Take the Money and Run” blares over the speakers as the penthouse door finally opens.

“Go ahead,” Maddox croons with Axel standing by his side, grinning like the Joker, “clean us out, Little Bandit.”

“I swear to fuck, man.” I swat for them to move so I can bring Sylvie inside. “I told all of you that I wanted her to feel at home, so you staged a damn sting?”

I’ve barely finished snapping at them when Sylvie and I both spot the massive Welcome banner on the family room wall.

“Dear fuck,” I hiss.

“Is that a …” She trails off because you’d really need to either be part of this insane family, have been on the text thread earlier, or have stared at a lot of therapist ink splotches to be capable of finishing that sentence.

“A Venn diagram?” I throw my hands out, my gaze skating across every one of them—all trying to appear as though they’re deep in analytic thought over this obscene art.

“In the shape of hearts,” Jax supplies. “It kind of looks like”—he stalls there, and that’s an appropriate place for one of his pauses—“something else. And given the subject matter …”

“It’s not a blue female body part, is what he’s trying to say.” Tessa huffs with her trademark irritation for moronic moments. “Despite the labels.”

Yeah, the labels.

The left side of one blue heart reads friend, the right side of the other reads foe, and the overlapping area, which is a slightly darker shade, is inscribed with the word feline. Naturally, they titled it, The Saga of Sylvie and Cash.

Sylvie’s jaw drops open with a quiet little whine. “Is it blue for a reason?”

Ryker and Mercy are so undone; they can’t even look this way anymore. Mercy’s going to pop that baby out. Or, at the very least, pee.