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Eliot easily stretches his arm upward and out of Beckett’s reach.
Beckett remains even-tempered. He’s shirtless, his floral tattoos spindling up his arm, and since he’s in sweatpants, I doubt he’s seen the tailor yet. “I’m not playing around. Give me the phone.”
“You think I’m playing?” Unkempt rage brews in Eliot’s blue eyes. “I’m not giving you or anyone the phone. You’ll have to take it from me.”
Beckett sucks in a tight breath. “Eliot, please. I’m not fighting you for the fucking phone.”
“Come on, man,” Ben says from several feet away. He’s the only one wearing suit pants, likely The Ben. The dark blue fabric is unbuttoned and unzipped—maybe it doesn’t even have a fly yet. “You don’t want to do this.”
“You’re wrong, baby brother. I know exactly what I want to do,” Eliot sneers.
“Fuuuck,” Tom mutters, his hands on his head like he doesn’t know how to stop this car crash.
Confusion whirls my head. What the hell is going on?
“Luna?” That voice belongs to one of the four other people in the room. I barely noticed the Epsilon bodyguards.
I hate that they’re wallpaper to me, but I do remember their full names, even if some just go by last names only. They’re all in between their early-thirties and late-twenties, and right now, the Wreath brothers, Chris Novak, and Ryan Cruz Jr. are posted near an ornate full-length mirror, watching the Cobalt brothers self-implode.
Of the three, Ian Wreath is the most senior at maybe thirty-three, thirty-four-years-old? He’s already taking a step towards me, the authority clear.
The distraction is enough for Eliot to swing his head to me. “Luna?”
Beckett takes the moment to steal Eliot’s phone.
“Wait!” Eliot lunges, but Beckett is quicker and nimble, able to jump from the couch and add distance.
“Luna,” Ian Wreath calls out again, seriousness coating his voice. “Where’s your bodyguard?”
“She’s outside waiting in a car,” I lie with utter ease. Teleportation might not run in the family, but I know lying does. I could’ve inherited this power from my parents.
Ian stares me down. He’s what the security team calls a “buddyguard” and I’ve been around him enough to recognize that this stare-down is weird. Way too odd for comfort. In the past four years as Tom’s bodyguard, he’s been super hands-off. Like chill to the max.
Right now, he is anything but chill.
Ian folds his arms over his chest. “All it takes is one radio in to see if that’s true.” He calls my bluff. “So I’ll ask you again, where’s your bodyguard?”
“You didn’t bring your bodyguard here?” Beckett suddenly asks, his concern tripling as he approaches.
How did this turn on me? Am I a magnet for attention? I’m supposed to be helping Eliot! I want to scream. But Tom is catching Eliot by the arm, and they’re whispering heatedly, pulling one another into the corner of the room.
Away from me.
Was I not supposed to even be here?
I feel like floating away. Teleportation is way more useful than the ability to lie. Unfortunately, I’m stuck here.
“Luna?” Beckett waves a hand in front of my face, drawing my attention. Said hand also contains Eliot’s phone. “Where’s Frog?”
I focus on him. Beckett is earnest and worried, and the intention wasn’t to cause him alarm, so I just come clean. “She doesn’t know where I am. But I got here fine.”
“Fucking Omega,” Ian curses under his breath, then presses the mic at his collar.
“Wait,” I call out, my heartbeat quickening. “I’m really fine. I can just stick around Eliot and Tom today. This is my fault. I don’t want to involve anyone else.”
Ian’s hand freezes at his collar, and severity I’ve never seen before sobers his eyes. “We’re in different times, Luna. I can’t be doing this.” Doing this. He means bending rules. He’s bent a lot for Eliot, Tom, and me over the years.
“Different times,” I say the two words out loud, and I regret when I do.
Ian’s gaze flashes to Beckett.
He’s rigid beside me, trauma like shards of glass behind his yellow-green eyes, glazing them in a strange way I’ve never seen. He watched his bodyguard take down multiple men and be beaten in the process. It’s also unlocked a new fear for me.
Hence, no Frog today.
“Ian’s right,” Beckett says, his voice as smooth as idle water. “You can’t be ditching your bodyguard.” The next words come hushed. “Especially since you’re friends with Donnelly.”
Do you regret that friendship? I want to ask him, but I’m scared of the answer. Because if it’s yes, my heart will shatter for Donnelly.
I study him for another beat, wondering if Charlie told him that Donnelly and I have not so chaste feelings for one another. Beckett has never struck me as manipulative or cunning—he would’ve outright said since you love him if he knew more. My best guess: he thinks we’ve always been in the friendship zone.
