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I arch a brow. “Tell me another one.”
Jin’s eyes flash midnight black. “Fine. I’m fucking furious. But revenge later. Right now, I need our mate fed, in dry clothes, and convinced how much she’s loved.”
“Take care of her.” I grip his arm, trusting him to be there for my queen until it’s my turn to serve.
“Obviously.” Jin pats my fingers. Then he ruffles Dutch’s hair and squeezes Reese’s good shoulder. “Go take care of yourselves. When you can purr instead of snarling, wait outside the nest. Got it?”
We scatter to see to our needs.
Reese sprints to the batting cage, and Dutch runs off to find his family.
I shoot Wyvern House an encrypted message, containing all the intel I’ve scraped together on Marisol and her enemies.
Serafina Redfang. The SAS. And Rance Orlov, whose pack is either dead or about to beg us for that privilege.
I have my own sources. The dirty associates I inherited from Senior, plus years of contacts I’ve cultivated along the way toward securing my hotel and clawing my boys beyond the ever-clenching rim of Kairo Moon’s greedy-sphinctered ass.
Compared to Wyvern House, I’m a diaper baby trying to spy for secrets with two plastic cups connected by dollar-store yarn.
Their mercenary business runs worldwide. With their resources, they’ll have targets ready for us to eviscerate before my hair is styled.
Until I can castrate the shit-gibbons who insulted my queen, all I can do is scrub away the unholy rage threatening to burst my skull like an overstuffed éclair.
I head inside for a marathon shower.
First, I scrub my skin pink.
Then, I keep scrubbing until it’s red, depleting the local water table and straining the island power grid to maintain a sufficiently sanitizing steam.
I scrub until the hot water quits.
Then I huddle under cold spray, teeth clacking.
Scrubbing doesn’t fix shit, but it’s preferable to not scrubbing and infinitely looping the haunted, horrified look in Marisol’s eyes as she covers her body and banishes my pathetic ass.
I shouldn’t have seen what she wasn’t ready to show, but now that our lies have unspooled, I can’t be the kid waiting for daddy to come home and dish another beating.
I can’t wait for Sol to accept what I’m offering.
If she slams the door in my face, then I have to keep knocking.
If she hides her pain, then I have to bare mine.
And when her rejection rips me into wet confetti?
What else?
Hide the damage with online shopping.
Marisol Meadows is about to receive an obscene quantity of gifts.
The allure of flexing my black card finally drags me out of the hail spray. I dress neatly, dabbing on cologne so that when I roll into her nest, Sol only gets my best.
That’s all she’ll see from me until she’s willing to accept my worst.
I’ve been carrying the gold and ruby lighter she stole from Old Nik, then tried to toss. It’s expensive. And it evokes the vision of my war goddess mate, haloed in flames.
I tuck the lighter into my pocket, then grab my phone, ready to stockpile cashmere bedding for the royal nest.
