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“Is there something else you want to tell me?”
Damon’s brows crash together. “Who was that?”
“It was Mark.”
Eyes wide, Damon shifts his stance but doesn’t look away.
“What did he want?”
“William’s dead.”
His face pales, throat moving to swallow. “Fuck.”
Yeah, I think.
Because that’s all that can be said about it.
My voice is careful when I ask, “Would you like to explain to me just how badly you hurt him?”
Damon blinks in my direction, his lips a thin line, and his eyes brimming with anger.
He doesn’t answer, just goes back to cleaning.
Emily
The Inferno is an impressive group of men.
I’m not going to lie and claim otherwise. Just the sight of them is enough to draw notice, to make people nervous, to elicit soft whispers behind hands while everyone around them either worries about what they’ll do...or wants them.
I guess it depends on how you look at them. Women blush and preen, hoping to gain even the slightest bit of attention. Meanwhile, men view them as competition, yet refuse to approach a set of nine men who could easily crush them like a bug.
They were beautiful in high school. Troublemakers, yet smart. They were the rich boys who did what they wanted, when they wanted, and didn’t worry much about the consequences.
Now they are so much more than that, and the full impact isn’t really known until they’re standing together, shoulder to shoulder, their expressions tight and stern, their combined prowess and strength undeniable.
They are a work of art, and I can’t stop staring from where I stand opposite them beneath the large boughs of stately trees, the dappled sunlight dancing over the coffin that is set between us as a reverend speaks thoughtfully of a man who doesn’t deserve the mourning of a large crowd.
William Cross is dead.
The funeral, of course, became a societal affair, everybody who is anybody attending the service, all dressed in designer, black outfits, some pretending to care.
I can’t pretend, and if it weren’t for my family dragging me here, and if I didn’t know the twins would need my support, I would just as soon spit on William’s grave than be here.
Ivy and Ava stand on either side of me, their eyes set on the Inferno where they are lined up together. It’s hard not to look.
There’s just something about them that demands attention, every one of them tall and well built, their faces gorgeous, their bodies chiseled to perfection.
That fact isn’t hidden by the tailored cut of their dark suits. If anything, what they wear only gives them more power, as if looks alone could be a weapon.
And in their case, it can.
Behind them are their fathers, only seven left now that William is gone.
You could cut the tension with a knife for all of them to be so close together, and I was worried before coming here about what would happen.
Thankfully, the boys are behaving themselves, despite the barely restrained anger that rolls off all of them.
None of that matters as much to me as the twins. I keep my eye mostly on them.
