by Angel Payne
“Noted,” he returns. “But there’s a larger picture to focus on here.” There’s a discernible falter in his grin—and a heightened glint in his eyes. “You know this.”
“I ‘know’ this?” So much for tiptoeing at the line between composure and rage. As the force of it thickens at the edges of my vision, I bare my gritted teeth at the asshole who’s sneering at me like I’m ten years old and all he’s done is walk through my corner of the playground. “You know what I know now, asshole? That I’m not your scrawny disciple anymore. That you don’t get to walk away from the mess you’ve made this time.”
“All right. Fine. Whatever you say.” His hands are up before I can aim the pulse for a solid throat punch. Of course. Diplomacy is a cinch when a guy has Mom and Dad Richards at his back. “Just chill out, Reece,” he grits. “Take a breath. Talk to Emma. I was just messing around.”
“Just messing around.” My echo is edged with disbelief—and fury that makes Emma cry out, too late, as I haul Tyce up by the knot of his designer necktie. “Let me make something clear, shithead. Emmalina Crist is the larger picture for me. That means she’ll never be yours to just mess around with again. Ever. Are we clear?”
“Yes. Christ.” Tyce twists, trying to break away, until I swing down my other hand, pushing him from beneath with a concentrated burst of electrified air. “For the love of fuck, Reece.”
“Are. We. Clear?”
He looks left and right with a bugged-out gaze, no doubt accessing what damage I’ll really attempt in front of a crowd including the mayor of LA, half of Hollywood’s elite, and a hell of a lot of press. His theory is right. Sort of. I can’t deck him again, a rule that’d apply even if I hadn’t just received the key to the city and made a speech about the essence of a superhero lying in their character choices and not their fight choreography—but I can deliver an equally horrific fate in the form of the energy jolt against his ass. With a slight tweak to the beam’s girth and angle, he should start feeling some “unique” sensations down there…right about now…
“What. The. Fuck?”
“Something wrong, bro?” I dip my head so he alone can hear my murmur. “You look…uncomfortable. Like maybe you’re about to have the shit squeezed out of you in front of all these nice people.” A knowing grin. “But don’t think anything of it, Ty. I’m just messing around, all right?”
“Damn it,” he grates. “Reece—”
“Not the words I need, sweetheart.” I rotate my hand, ensuring he feels his electric enema in a few new spots of his sphincter. “Just answer me one question and we can be done.”
Another rotation, resulting in his clenched grimace and my grim smirk. I know it’s not really a moment for smiling, but we Richards boys have always had bizarre senses of humor. A twisted code, cultivated by Dad’s “eat or be eaten” version of tough love, demanding unquestioning loyalty and hefty sacrifices. In the name of “manning up” to earn that love, I’d allowed Tyce and Chase to raid everything from my toys and clothes to my mind and self-worth. Because real men helped their brothers cheat on math tests, right? And real men let their brothers win at Call of Duty so they’d impress the hot girls who’d come over to study for that math test. Real men also took the blame for spilling printer ink on Mom’s Aubusson rug so the brothers wouldn’t miss getting to go on a hot date with the smitten girls.
I’ve resigned myself to a lot of that bullshit now. The past is the past. But my future? My Emmalina? She will never be included in their twisted game. Ever.
Which is why I smile, this time without a shred of shame, as Tyce finally snarls, “We’re clear.”
And why I drop him and then turn, this time without acknowledging Dad, Mom, or Chase, and leave the building completely.
And why I squeeze, this time without hesitation, as Emma slips her hand into mine during our trek to the limousine holding area. And why I sigh, with more than a little irony, as she asks, “You okay?”
“Velvet.” I cup a hand to the back of her neck. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
She purses her lips. The bottommost of those plush pillows is jutted into a gorgeous pout. “Oh, I’m just dandy—aside from being the reason my fiancé just punched the crap out of his brother, likely burning every stick of the bridges he’s built back to his family.”
“You mean the bridges you helped to build?”
I don’t know how to interpret her answering look. It’s more than an eye roll but not a full glower. “Bylines aren’t important right now. What is important—”
“Is the fact that he deserved it?”
She stops short. Pulls her hand free. “I was going to say getting the whole story, but you’re clearly not concerned about being fair here, are you?”
I widen my stance. Return the new force of her glare by refusing to blink mine. “You were screaming, Emmalina. How do you want me to fill out the rest of my view from there?”
She huffs through bared teeth—but as Zalkon spots us and drives the black L7 stretch up to the curb, her next breath is instead a wistful sigh. “Shit,” she whispers as we climb into the back and instantly wrap ourselves in each other’s arms. “Maybe…”
“Maybe what?” I prompt, stroking her temple as she breathes soft warmth across my chest.
“Maybe…you’re right,” she confesses. “Maybe we’re just asking fate for too much.” With quiet tenderness, she rubs her fingertips over the space atop my heart. “Maybe smooth sailing with our families is just never going to be part of the course she’s charted for us. And maybe she just figures we need a few interesting storms.”
I grunt into the citrus softness of her hair. “Because we’ve had such balmy weather already?”
“Technically?” she ripostes. “Yes. We’ve got a couple of great places to live, with a custom house on the way. We’re in jobs we love and have friends who kick ass. And oh yeah, there’s the whole superpowers thing…” Her voice softens into a cute-as-fuck purr as she roams those entrancing fingers down and spreads them over my stomach. “And we can’t discount abs like this…”
I layer my chuckle to her hum as she loosens a couple of my shirt buttons—but my mirth is slain by a strangled choke when she keeps going, sneaking a hand across my navel before venturing lower. “I had no idea that abs counted in the cosmic weather report.”
She stills her hand. Lifts a gorgeous, wide stare. “Where else are they supposed to count?”
As she renews her little caressing circles, I buck my hips. “Guess you’d better batten down the hatches.”
“And put myself on storm watch?”
“If that’ll help wash away the crap we just had to wade through…” I pull her in a little closer, nuzzling my mouth down to the edge of her jaw. “Then fuck, yes.”
A giggle escapes her as perfect as the spatters of a surprise summer shower. Goddamn. I’m seriously the world’s luckiest fucker. Without trying, the woman is always the sun beneath my darkest clouds, the laughter in my most dismal moments.
And as much as I want to be the same for her in return, especially as she starts a playful hum of “Singin’ in the Rain,” it’s my place to be Mr. Realism here. It has to be. So with resigned firmness, I form my hand over hers and murmur, “Velvet?”
“Hmmm?”
“You know there will be more storms now. My Tarzan act on Tyce has likely made me the Richards problem child once again.”
The likely is for her benefit only. I already know the truth, having caught a good look at my parents’ faces before I let Emma pull me out of the Observatory. It was déjà vu to the days when my school absences outnumbered my attendances, yet I was nailing every test and exam, as well as half their bridge club’s daughters.
Simply put, they still don’t know what to do with me.
And yet, they don’t know what not to do with me.
But as soon as they figure it all out, I’m damn sure I’ll know.
Along with the fact that said plan will be a punishment, not a promotio
n.
Just to confirm that tidbit, I’m sure my old friend shame will be here any second, ready to start his preparations for the funeral of my self-esteem. I brace myself, getting ready for the fucker to start pounding away…
Only he’s not anywhere to be found.
Maybe he’s having trouble sneaking past Emma’s lingering touch, with her fingers now swirling closer to my waistband. Or maybe he never made it past the force field of her spirit, still filling the inside of the limo with her happy hums. Which leads me to think that maybe she didn’t hear me…
“Emmalina?”
She switches off the soft song. “Hmmmm?”
“Did you hear me?”
“Mmmmhmmm.” Then turns her humming back on. “You’re Tarzan the problem child. And that means we’ve probably got storms coming.”
“Which means…”
“I need to get a cuter raincoat.”
I drop a cement block of a huff. “That wasn’t what I meant.”
“I know what you meant.” She pulls away until she’s upright and able to look me in the eyes. “But what good is all that angst going to do us right now?” She props her elbow to the back of the seat and brings her head to her knuckles. “Your parents are going to do what they’re going to do—but somehow we’ll handle it.” With her free hand, she strokes the edge of my jaw. “As long as we’re together, we can handle anything.”
I turn my face toward her palm, filling its center with the pressure of my lips before lifting a hand to lace my fingers through hers. I keep our grip locked as I murmur, “Yeah. You’re right.”
“Damn right, I’m right.”
But while her words are assuring, they’re accompanied by the skitter of her gaze. Suddenly, she’s too damn fascinated with the passing scenery, even as the shadowed greenery of Griffith Park gives way to the urban landscape of Los Feliz. Yeah, even after I tug her face around again, kissing her reverently in the glow of passing streetlights, the haze in her eyes looks like it belongs to another time, another space.
I pull her closer and wrap her elbow around my neck, but her body doesn’t soften by one inch. Even with the blares, blasts, noise, and insanity of an LA night, there’s a growing tumor of silence weighing the air between us.
I circle my hold tighter around her—sensing the matching tension growing thicker by the second inside her. “What is it, Velvet?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.”
“Oh, crap.” She pushes back, worrying her lip as convincingly as a B-movie actress playing off a green screen. “Lydia.” She plunges a hand into her clutch and pulls her phone back out. “We left so fast, I couldn’t make arrangements for her ride home…”
“Which I’m sure Sawyer will be happy to handle.” With a smooth sweep, I’ve got the phone out of her grip and her arm back around my neck. “Nice try, beautiful.”
Her lips compress. “At what?”
“Why don’t you tell me?”
She races her gaze away again—and swallows hard.
Fresh fury chomps the pit of my gut. “Christ.”
“Okay, stop. Slow your roll, okay?”
“Slow my fucking roll? Are you kidding?”
“Breathe, damn it.”
I comply only because it’s her behind the order. Even so, I dig my hands in against her waist. “Tyce really did try some fuckery, didn’t he?”
“Reece—”
“Tell me.”
“Reece!”
“Goddamnit, Emma!”
“Oh, for the love of—” She finishes for herself with a shove so virulent, I wonder if her finale will be leaving the car completely. We’re stopped at the corner of Western and Hollywood, and thanks to her, I know there’s a metro stop on the other side of the intersection—a station she won’t think twice about marching for to get on a train back to the Brocade, despite how I once saved her ass from a bunch of thugs in a station similar to it. Yeah, I already see that resolution in her eyes. That undaunted threat.
That complete lack of fear…
Which makes no sense, if she’s really a woman who just got jumped and pawed by her future brother-in-law.
Which means…
I have to tell the rage to go gnaw on somebody else for a while.
Because now I’m the one tucking in for the big meal. Staring down at my huge plate of crow.
“Stay.” It bursts from me as a command, made all the worse as I pry her fingers off the door handle, for which I apologize by bowing my head into her lap. “Please.” I drag back and straighten, refusing to let her hand go. “Tell me, Emma,” I entreat, coating it in more contrition. “The truth this time. I promise I’ll listen.”
She gulps again. Not good.
Then spurts out pieces of a giggle. Good?
Then looks out again at the intersection, with its array of Hollywood Boulevard crazies, like all of them are still a better choice than confronting me.
Fuck. Not good.
Then turns fully back, working her grip tighter into mine.
So…good?
Crap on a platter. I’m completely lost, unsure how to decipher what my instinct—or whatever the hell this creature now feasting on my guts is—is telling me. Emma’s mien, with her hard and full breathing and deep V between her eyebrows, doesn’t give me any further clues.
After pulling in a breath that’s even deeper than her others, she finally lifts her head and states, “Your brother did seek me out in the bathroom tonight—but not for what you’ve assumed.”
I wait a significant second, wanting to let her know I’ve heard despite my reply. “As you both told me. Repeatedly.”
She pinches her lips. “Are you ready to hear why, or am I going to get out at Sunset and hoof it to the train station from there?”
Well, shit. “I’m zipped,” I growl.
“Good.” But her composure glitches the next second, turning her exhalation into a weird stutter before she mutters, “Th-That’s damn good.”
“Is it?” And again, I’m not at all certain of the answer myself. “Jesus Christ in guacamole, Em. What the hell is it?” While we’ve tossed out the garbage of suspecting Tyce of trying to get between her legs, whatever happened in that restroom is still clearly haunting her mind—perhaps even worse than a flirtation gone wrong.
She bends over to press fervent kisses to my knuckles. I gape at the top of her head in bewilderment. She’s leaned down to bestow the kisses…not brought my hands up so she can meet my eyes at the same time, like she normally does.
Just as strangely, she’s flipping her head back up, shaking her head as if ordering herself not to cry in a sappy movie—which she always does anyway. For which I adore her, anyway.
“God,” she finally utters. “I’m sorry. I’m probably overreacting…”
“To what?” I’m growling now. “Velvet, you’re leading me through the dark, but I’m not sure you have a flashlight. What the hell are—”
“Tyce told me that he found me and cornered me because he needed to get a message to you. That he needed me to listen carefully and relay exactly what he told me.”
“Okay.” I barely resist extending the syllables and turning it into a question. There’s no need for it, though, since I follow up with, “So why didn’t he just pull me aside sometime during the party?”
“Exactly what I thought,” she fills in. “But he emphasized the same thing. The message had to go straight to you.”
“But why? Did he explain that?” Once more, her averted gaze supplies the answer. I can’t believe that the unlimited seafood buffet we’re passing is that fascinating. “What was it?”
She pulls her gaze away from the All-You-Can-Eat Shrimp banner but reaffixes it on the clasp of our hands. “He said there was no way in hell you should go to the Richards Clan Kumbaya in the City of Lights.”
“What? Not go to Paris?” I let my fingers go slack as confusion makes everything but her go fuzzy. “I don’t understand. He can’t be that big o
f a prick, can he?”
“Baby.” She reaches for me, her expression softening. “He looked like anything but a prick, okay? Even when he—”
“Even when he what?” I demand it from gritted teeth when she stops, again clearly torn about going on. “Damn it, Emma. When he what?”
“Nothing,” she rushes out. “It— It was nothing.”
“And I’m the fucking King of Persia.”
She jerks up her head. Squares her shoulders. “Just…the way he looked…right before…”
“Right before what?”
“He told me he owed it to Alpha Three.”
My lungs stop.
My vision clouds.
My head spins. And gongs. And pounds. And screams.
“Did… Did he say anything else?” My blurt is muffled by the chaos that continues in my senses.
She pulls in another shaky inhalation and follows it with an equally uneasy exhalation. “No.”
“Then why did you scream? Emma?” I don’t mess around with the dictate, palming the back of her neck when she falls into palpable silence. She responds then, but only to shake her head and slam her eyes shut, as if struggling not to relive a bad memory.
“It was just…the way Tyce looked—”
As she interrupts herself with a strangled sound, I peer at her harder. Normally, just having this direct contact is all the access my instinct needs to know her thoughts. But right now, she’s nothing but a muddle to me, and I struggle against the fear that brings.
“The way he looked…how?”
She opens her eyes, but that gives me no clarity. They’re the color and texture of storm clouds at midnight—backlit by a moon of anxiety. “I don’t know how to describe it. He…well, he changed. Almost as if he became another person.” Her features twist, and she chokes out a tiny sob. “And it was shocking. And so I screamed. But now, I don’t even know if it was real. He switched back to normal as soon as you came in.”
“While coming to the worst conclusion I could.”
The din in my mind finally subsides. A little. I send a hard swallow down my throat. “Well, the assmunch got his way. Dad won’t be sending over a plane ticket to Paris.”
