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“Alistair.” Magda, the lady of the house and whom we consider Mom, dusts her hands off on her apron and graces me with a big smile. “I am so glad you’re home, and you brought a guest.” She skips hugging me and goes right to Reese, who doesn’t let go of my hand. “And who might you be?”
“Reese,” she says truthfully. “Reese Carmichael”.
Just because I’m an asshole, I kill what little progress she’s made at finding comfort in Magda’s smile and drop the words, “My wife.”
The bottle in Tennyson’s hand drops to the floor and shatters.
“What the fuck, Tennyson?” Bach yells, grabbing him by the throat. “Where are your manners?”
Tennyson ignores him. His gaze, like Shakespeare’s, is on mine.
“Married,” Magda says. “You’re married?”
Shakespeare chuckles at all of us. He’s the deadliest and the snarkiest. He’s also the most unpredictable. He pulls out a knife, peeling an apple in his hand, and steps forward. “Now, Ma,” he drawls, holding Reese’s gaze. “Of course, she’s his wife.”
I feel a shiver go through Reese when Shakespeare approaches. At least her self-preservation instincts have kicked in. As I told her, I’m not the worst person in this house. Some wish to do more than just torch her future.
“Congratulations, brother,” he says, sickeningly sweet. “I applaud the tactic.”
I ignore him and look at my other two brothers, who have taken an interest in Shakespeare’s theory.
“Is this her?” Tennyson asks. “Did you break the covenant?”
Bach straightens and smooths his button-down shirt. My brothers are still in their suits from work. Like me, they look wealthy and professional. No one would ever know they’ve been convicted of heinous crimes.
It’s at that point Bach begins to clap. “My, oh my, Magda. You were right. Tonight’s dinner is going to be amazing.”
Magda flips around and cuts what I’m sure is a stare that promises punishment or, in reality, dishes. Magda doesn’t believe in a dishwasher, and her husband does not believe in ungratefulness.
“Bach,” Magda scolds, “pretend you have some manners.”
Magda gives me a look that promises me a very long and most likely alcohol-needed conversation later and takes Reese’s hand. “Come. You can help me finish the lasagna. Tennyson has been absolutely no help.”
Shakespeare flashes me a wink and licks his lips. “Tell me,” he whispers, inhaling a breath and smelling the smoke on my clothes. “How did it feel to burn again?”
Reese
Holy shit.
Van wasn’t joking when he said there were scarier things in here than him. I might as well call Van a saint. Not that he isn’t scary, but these guys are freaking terrifying.
And what’s with their names?
Shakespeare. Bach. Tennyson.
The greatest playwriter of all time.
The musical prodigy.
The famed poet.
They’re all named, or at least known by the street names of famous artists throughout history. I can’t even imagine why they call the man with chaos behind his eyes, Shakespeare. The way he looked at me was frightening.
Van has his faults, but it’s not because he loves to destroy the lives of others for fun. Van needs justice to sleep at night. Albeit, he goes about it the wrong way—at least he used to—but behind the flames is a boy who loved so fiercely that he couldn’t move on until he found closure. Until they paid for what they had done to her.
Van is one of a kind.
He’s protective yet threatening.
