Page 65 of Fatality on the Field

“Holy… sh-shit,” Lucas mumbles into my shoulder with an aftershock shudder.

It’s a long, long way down from the high of mating sex, so I don’t even respond at first. When I finally have lungs again and his hand drops from my neck, I realize that everyone in this goddamn house had to hear that. No way anyone is asleep now that I screamed the roof down and the guys snarled like their souls were being ripped from their bodies. I inhale deeply, catching my breath after the mini-asphyxiation play, and notice the room now smells like sex, sweat, dude, and just a little bit of blood.

At least now we’ve earned it—but we’ll definitely need to air this shit out while we’re all at work.

Liam lifts his head from the wounds he inflicted, licking them closed. I look back at him, noting his long hair is mussed and sticking up at impossible angles. “Now that is a wake-up call, Macushla. We should add it to the calendar app. It won’t scandalize Channing in the slightest.”

I blink, my hand flying to my mouth as I snort. Lucas grins, shaking his head and reaches down to lift my leg off of his hip. He slips out of me, scooting back as his eyes dance with mischief. The evidence of our fun dribbles out of me onto the sheets and I groan. “These have to be washed now.”

Liam shrugs, as he pulls away to leave me leaking and well-fucked in the middle of the bed. “Well worth it, I think. There is no way this day will not be awful and starting it on the right foot might just keep you from killing someone.”

Laughing, I make myself move, scooting to the end of the bed and putting my feet on the floor. “You may be right. If anyone gets under my skin today, I’ll remind them that they’re very fortunate I had brain-melting sex this morning, so I won’t skin them with a paint scraper.”

Neither of them says anything for a long time, but eventually, Liam finds his voice. “I’d pay to see that, especially if it’s someone from this realm’s supernatural governing bodies. There’s nothing more amusing than pompous, lifetime politicians being told to shove it up their tailpipe. It makes my heart sing.”

Lucas just groans and shakes his head. “All I ask is that you don’t get yourself thrown in the clink, babe. We have too much going to go on to add a rescue mission from some badass secret prison, okay? Just… remember that we’ll be here when you come home, as will Slade and the two idiots earning their place. You’re not alone and it matters if you disappear.”

I don’t know if he could have said anything more perfectly geared toward me if he tried, but now I actually have to behave today.

Even when they’re being sweet, men ruin everything—including a day full of tasty death threats.

forty

SLADE

The rhythmic thump from the adjoining room is enough to vibrate my bones, and it’s not like I can put in earplugs or throw a pillow over my head and pretend it’s the pipes. Every three-point-two seconds, a fresh pulse shakes the air above me, and then there’s a short silence—just long enough for me to think it’s over—before it starts up again with a vengeance.

I’m not jealous of Lucas and the prince… just sad that I don’t feel comfortable enough yet to pop over and join in.

Rolling onto my back, I stare at the ceiling as the next crescendo rattles the air vent. It’s not that I’m a prude, either. I’m a siren—sex noises don’t offend me, and honestly, if anyone deserves a little joy, it’s my family, especially my mate. Iggy wasn’t ever shy about his in-home trysts, either, so it’s not my first-time being kept awake. However, there’s something about listening to those acrobatics once you know how it feels that makes your skin itch like you’ve rolled in fiberglass.

I check my phone and groan as I look up at the ceiling. It’s six a.m. and I’m never getting back to sleep. Obviously, I could go knock and politely tell them to keep it down. That would upset Morgana, though, and she might invite me out of pity rather than ask me because she wants me there. I don’t want that, nor do I want to wonder about the intent forever. When I’m part of the group, I want to know they want me along for the rides.

Yeah, yeah, that’s my insecurity and it’s because of my upbringing and maybe a little from Iggy, but it’s where I am.

So I peel myself off the bed, throw on a robe, and pad barefoot to the kitchen. The tile is cool and clean, the entire room smelling like fresh flowers even though we haven’t been in here much. I’m not sure who’s in charge of this place’s cleaning schedule—probably Chan-Chan, with a laminated rotation and little check boxes—but it’s damn efficient. The fridge light is a small flare in the dark as I fish out a few ingredients to start up breakfast. I’m no five-star chef, but I can make some decent food when I have time and I know everyone will be hungry when they come down.

The ritual of making fresh coffee grounds me. There’s a simplicity in it because of routine—grind, scoop, pour, and wait. At the Beanery, I do this in batches for hundreds of people. Here, it’s just me and the quiet, punctuated only by the creaks of the old house and the not-so-subtle bed frame drumming above me. I don’t bother with the paper filters; I go old-school, Sock brewing it directly in the carafe. When the kitchen fills with the sharp, earthy smell, I almost forget I was cranky and needy a few minutes ago.

While it’s perking, I find bowls and start up a muffin recipe. This, too, is routine and the methodical motions of filling the bowls until I have a fresh batter is soothing. It takes a moment to hunt down tins, and once I get them filled, I slide one into the preheated oven. At this rate, I’ll be dusting the baseboards and writing up a stock request before anyone else even rises from their beds.

That’s what I do at work, obviously, but it’s funny to think about doing it in my new home.

I’m humming a quiet song to myself as I work when I hear a creak on the stairs. It’s not the heavy footfall of a bear or the clipped, military march of a dragon. This is softer, more careful. I know the sound; I’ve catalogued every way Ignatius Briarton moves through the world, and this is him in stealth mode.

I don’t turn. Instead, I continue with my tasks because if I look up and he’s shirtless and disheveled, I’ll probably dump shit all over the counter. Eventually, I feel him behind me—a familiar buzz that registers almost immediately. He doesn’t say anything at first; he just walks up until he’s close enough to lean into my back and then hooks his chin over my shoulder. His hair smells faintly of his rosemary shampoo, and I know for certain it’s still mussed from sleep. I freeze at his warm touch, with my spoon suspended as I wait for a punchline or a complaint.

But it doesn’t come. He just… breathes like he’s trying to memorize how I smell. I’m so caught off-guard I almost forget to take in air again myself. When I remember, I lick my lips nervously.

“I knew you’d be up,” Iggy says, his voice scratchy but warm. “Can’t sleep with that going on, either, huh?”

“Nope.” I nudge his cheek with my shoulder, which is probably more familiar than it should be, but he doesn’t flinch away. “It’s not new or anything, but knowing I could be in there, too, makes it more difficult to ignore.”

My friend frowns as he presses his face against my neck. “I’m sorry about that. I… I just didn’t think about it and I was an asshole.”

I can’t help it—I laugh softly then clamp my mouth shut. “Iggy, you did think about it and often talked about it with me. I don’t think you were trying to hurt me, but you never even attempted discretion. However, I could have left, moved out, or even talked to you about it. I didn’t, and that puts a small amount of responsibility on me, as well.”

He hums something, not moving away from my skin. After a beat, he says, “It’s weird, being so close to it but not part of it. Makes you feel like you’re still on the outside looking in. I hate that I did that to you because I was too scared. I’m getting my karma from that now, if it makes you feel better, because I’m not invited yet. You could be, if you asked.”