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All the aches and pains in my body are good ones, as far as I’m concerned. They’re reminders that I’m alive, and—in their own ways—reminders of how much the men I’m living with care about me.
And maybe I’m developing a vicious streak, but I find myself looking forward to my training sessions with Ryland. Waling on a pair of mitts or the heavy bag makes me feel less helpless, even if it doesn’t directly help us solve our problem of what to do about Luca.
I pull my hair up into a rough ponytail and slip on my sneakers before heading for the door, and I roll my shoulders lightly as I start to head down the stairs to the first floor.
But when I’m about halfway down, I stop.
Voices are floating up from somewhere—the living room, I think—and I realize almost immediately that they’re not all voices I know. I recognize Marcus’s deep timbre, and I catch a voice that sounds like Theo’s. But there are two others that are unfamiliar, one male and one female.
I debate about whether to go back upstairs, but the guys never told me anything about keeping my presence here a secret. So after a moment’s hesitation, I keep walking, slowing my steps a little as I strain my ears to pick up more of the conversation.
It’s not until I’m on the first floor and heading toward the living room that I begin to catch more of the actual words being spoken. When I do, my heart thunders in my chest.
“…could’ve waited more than a few days to throw a wake for me.”
Marcus’s voice is low and even, but I can hear the anger buried beneath the surface.
Oh fuck. Is he talking to his parents?
My footsteps pause again, my pulse picking up higher and higher as a feminine voice responds.
“We thought you were dead. We were only trying to pay our respects.”
“Sure. And maybe you also figured that since you’d lost your stake in the game, you could use the opportunity to shore up your losses by making deals with all the people who came to ‘mourn’ my death.”
“That’s not true.” His mother’s voice is cultured and softly melodic. It would be pretty if I didn’t hate every word she speaks.
“You weren’t there,” a deep voice adds. Marcus’s dad, I’m assuming. “You didn’t see your mother’s face when the game ended and we learned that you’d disappeared. We all know what that usually means.”
“And now that we know you’re alive, we’ll do everything we can to support you, just like we always have,” his mother says. “Your engagement to Victoria Tatum was unexpected, but I think the marriage could be a good thing. Her family has been gaining prominence recently, especially since she’s held her own in the game so well. You should have the ceremony soon. It will be a good opportunity for us.”
“You approve of the engagement then? Even though I don’t love Victoria? Even though I don’t even fucking like her?”
Marcus’s voice is even more clipped than it was before. And I hear something else in it now besides anger, something buried even deeper.
Pain.
Without even thinking it through, I’m moving again, striding down the hall with quick steps until I reach the living room. When I enter, five sets of eyes turn toward me.
Ryland is in the room too, even though I didn’t hear him speak before. He’s leaning against the wall just inside the doorway, his arms crossed and a dark look on his face. Instead of his usual button-up shirt and dark slacks, he’s got on workout clothes just like I do.
Marcus’s parents are the only ones seated, which tells me a lot about how this conversation is going already. Theo stands off to one side, and Marcus is standing in front of his parents where they sit on the couch, his hands stuffed into his pockets and his shoulders tense.
His mother was in the middle of answering his question when I barged in, but whatever she said got lost in the roar of blood in my ears. I don’t really care what it was anyway.
I don’t really give a shit what she thinks. About any of this.
“Fuck you.”
The words slip past my lips before I can stop them, coated in the same deadly calm Marcus’s voice held earlier.
His mother’s eyes widen until I can see the whites all around her irises. I remember her from the wake, but I’m not sure she remembers me. Her hair is a bit lighter than her son’s, her features delicate and elegant. The perfection of her appearance contrasts almost comically with her scandalized expression.
Honestly, I can’t tell if she’s shocked by what I said, or by the fact that I was the one to say it.
Gideon Constantine narrows his eyes at me before turning to his son. “What the hell is she—”
“Fuck you,” I say again, cutting him off as I raise my voice. “Want me to say it again? Fuck. You.”
