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And there it is. Decimation at its finest. He never saw it coming.
“The fuck?” Gage spits, choking on his bourbon.
Fucking hell.Fuel on the fire and providing the damn kindling.Morons.
“Oh,” she shrieks, eyes wild and tempestuous, hands flailing, “let me get this straight. It’s okay to put a tracking device insidemybody, but in my husband, who holds the same position, or in the men who have the coveted roles of our most essential counsel, it’s a what-the-fuck kind of idea? Well, there’s your damn answer, Big Guy.”
She struts into the kitchen, violently uncorking a bottle of wine and pouring herself a glass, the deep merlot complementing her flushed scarlet complexion. Her face is alight in satisfaction though; she’s always content to dominate an argument. That is, until she freezes at the bomb Liam drops on us all.
“I’ll do it,” he says so breezily that it’s as though he were volunteering to pick up groceries.
Her brows knit in an odd marriage of skepticism and wonderment. She sets the wineglass on the counter with a swish. “You will?”
“Would it help you sleep better, knowing if something bad happened, you could find me?” he asks, maintaining his nonchalant stance, feet outstretched and crossed at the ankles, beer dangling between his index finger and thumb. I’m not certain he’s resolved to get himself the tracker, although the offer appears to be in earnest. But either way, the gesture drives our desperate need home, especially with the mention of sleeping better. This isn’t how we planned it, but if it works, I’ll be forever indebted to him.
She swallows and nods, so he shrugs, saying, “Then, yeah. Of course I would.”
I see it swarm her—the grief from losing her father. It knocks her down like a tsunami when she least expects it. Jumping up, I hustle over to her, scooping her into my arms with a kiss on her button nose.
She tangles her arms behind my neck in a pretzel weave, so leveled by her inner torment of placing blame on herself for her parents’ kidnapping that she sags against me, whispering, “I get it. I do, but …”
Her pain and Liam’s question illuminate what should have been glaring me in the face. She fears losing me—any of us—as much as I do her.
I glance back at Liam with an appreciative grin. We exchange a brief nod before my lips brush over Ivy’s ear. “I’ll get one too.”
Her eyes flit to mine, a single note of her grief splashing her cheek with a hitched inhale. “Really?”
“Really.” My arms are still coiled around her, fingers skating over the nape of her neck and exposed skin on her hip. “I should have suggested it at the beginning. I love you, Ives. I need to know you’re safe, and I’m happy to give you that same peace of mind.”
I carry her back to the couch to finish our discussion. Her breathing finally evens out as I snuggle her against me.
Ty sighs. “I’m in.”
And Ivy bites back a smile, aware of the huge concession that is for him, for all of us.
“Fucking dumbass shit idea,” Gage snarls. “What if the tracking falls into the wrong person’s hands or we need to fucking disappear? You know, like we’ve all done a time or two?”
Valid points.
Ivy shrugs, lips curling into a contemplative frown. “So, we won’t put it anywhere deep. Just below the skin, somewhere like behind our ears, so if we had to, we could easily cut it out.”
She’s flipped sides, it seems, now a staunch advocate—a genius one, of course. Whichever way her wind blows is the winning argument.
The Little Storm has already won this battle, and Gage knows it. He’s simply too prideful to concede. But the faster he does, the easier it will be to win the war of protecting her. What we all want.
He hedges, so Ivy leans forward, elbows braced on her knees, fingers clasped, eyes on the Big Guy.
“I’ll bake you whatever you want for a full month. No limit on requests, although I do have some new recipes stored up here.” She taps her index finger on her temple.
“Every day? Anything I want?” His intrigue is comical. She’s not gifting him anything. She’s been baking up a storm in the wee hours of the night since Tom died, but this isforhim, I guess.
“Yep,” she says. “Any pastry, pie, cookie, or cake you can dream up. I’ll give it a go.”
And just like that, his face softens into the putty her sweets-offering molded.
He raises his glass in agreement, so Liam decks him in the shoulder, barking, “Now, who’s the fucking pussy? You sold your anonymity for goddamn pastries!”
Gage guzzles the last of his bourbon. “Doesn’t make me a pussy. It makes me shrewd. I’m the only one here who got something in return,dipshit.You gave it up for nothing.”
