Maybe with cruel hate.
I feel awfully gross.
Like I need to bathe and scrub every wall and floor and all of me. And I can’t help but remember the last time I experienced this nauseating violation that sinks and churns the bottom of my stomach.
Nate.
I worry he had a hand in the break-in.
But there’s no use in dwelling right now. I need to be on top of damage control. It’s what Moffy and I are good at, and Sulli and Luna have to feel safe to return here. They’re spending the night in Hell’s Kitchen with my brothers while we sort through this mess.
“I can’t make sense of what they were hoping to steal,” I whisper to Moffy, only one stair ahead of me, climbing the narrow staircase. “We live in the least lavish house of all the properties.” Mind spinning, I talk rapidly. “I hot-glued a bottle cap on my twelve-dollar vest the other day. My mom is the one who collects designer handbags and wears Chanel and Prada. And if I could guess, the most expensive item you own would be your car.”
Thatcher and Farrow already checked the garage and every vehicle. All clear , they said. We were mostly worried about Sulli’s Jeep, but it’s completely intact.
Nothing stolen or damaged there.
“Maybe it’s not the price tag they’re after, Janie,” Maximoff whispers back.
“They want something of sentimental value?” I wonder. “If that were the case, they would’ve taken Sulli’s Jeep.”
He steps over Toodles who sprawls sluggishly on an entire stair. “I bet it’d be harder to steal a car than things you can hold.”
Good points. “Yes, the risk does seem higher.”
His shoulders are squared, and once we reach the second-floor landing, I set Lady Macbeth down. Moffy and I work together to check Sulli and Luna’s room. We do a deep-dive and ensure everything is in place.
Including Sulli’s Olympic gold medals, climbing gear, framed family photos, and Luna’s laptop, Wampa cap, and sweatshirts. For the most part, their room appears entirely untouched.
We check my perpetually messy room next.
I find my pink buckled sandals stuffed in my closet where I last left them. Ones that my mom gifted me after the FanCon tour, and I let out a sigh of relief.
I have other keepsakes. Like a Siamese cat bobble-head that Moffy and I won at a fair, my diploma from Princeton, a stack of birthday cards tied with ribbon from all my siblings each and every year.
That and more are here. Undisturbed.
We exit.
Maximoff stares off in deeper thought.
“What is it, old chap?”
His powerful forest-green eyes rise to me. “We aren’t sure this was a burglary.”
It sickens me a little. To think that maybe someone entered with other motives in mind.
To hurt one of us?
To take pictures of themselves? On our beds? I shift my weight. “Right, and if it’s not a burglary then…perhaps they just wanted to tour our house.”
“Because there’s so much to see.” He motions towards the third-floor attic. “Let me show you my awesome dresser and my even more awesome bed where I rest my awesome head on an earth-shattering, revolutionary pillow .”
I nearly smile. “You sleep in that awesome bed with your future husband,” I remind him. “It’s what people care about.”
He nods, knowing this too, and then he goes rigid in sudden thought. “Jesus fucking Christ—if they raided our hampers and took Farrow’s underwear, someone is alligator bait, honest to God, Janie.”
I put my hands on his stiff shoulders. “Farrow won’t care. Just like you don’t care about your underwear being stolen. Just like I think that’s positively the least worst thing they could’ve taken.”
Dirty underwear.
Hair from our brushes.
Both are much better than anything meaningful to us.
He nods, exhaling a tense breath.
And as we climb the stairs to the attic, Maximoff says, “I keep thinking the timing of the break-in is bad with Sulli and Luna living here, but there is one good thing.” The stairs creak under our weight. “You’re on a sex hiatus, and Farrow and I don’t use condoms anymore. Which means no one could’ve stolen used condoms from the trash and taken sperm.”
Oh God.
Thatcher and I have protected sex.
He came in multiple condoms just last night, but I did check my trash bins. I even counted. I’m thorough.
None were taken.
More so, I am sweating at the thought of lying to my best friend right now. Who is so assured that I’m not having sex with anyone. Because he trusts that I would’ve told him.
I try to maintain total composure. “Good observation.” My heart is beating out of my chest.
He’s about to turn around and look at me, but Walrus and Carpenter scamper past our heels. Distracting him enough that the topic is dropped.
The lie sits heavy on top of my unease from the intruder, and I’m not sure staying quiet is the right thing to do.
But tonight is hard enough on us. I’m not going to make it harder.
* * *
The police just left, and the four of us stand tensely in the living room. I warm my hands around a mug of coffee.
Suspect: one male, identity unconfirmed.
He broke the kitchen window and crawled inside the house. He concealed his face with a baseball cap, and so his age and features are nondescript.
Apparently, he paid some teenagers to distract the security guards on-duty, so the police are tracking down the kids for a better suspect description. Plus, any footage paparazzi may’ve inadvertently caught.
The intruder was in the townhouse for about ten minutes. Our cameras showed him running away. Right before security entered.
Thatcher switches a knob on his radio. “We need to talk about this house.” He looks at me with grave concern, then to Moffy.
Strangely enough, Farrow is beside Thatcher . Radios and guns holstered on their waistbands, earpieces likely still humming with chatter.
Both twenty-eight-year-old men are facing Maximoff and me. Like we’re young and in need of guidance in this decision. I suppose this is a security issue and they are our bodyguards—but they’re more, too.
“We’re not moving out,” Maximoff declares in finality.
Farrow combs a hand through his platinum hair. “Before you take that off the fucking table, how about we talk this through?”
“Alright.” Moffy nods. “And so my brain isn’t all over the place, I need to know. Are you here as my bodyguard or my husband—future husband.” He rolls his neck back, glaring at the ceiling.
The air tenses with his slip. Mostly because Farrow isn’t joking back like he normally would. This really is a serious matter to our bodyguards.
“Both,” Farrow tells him. “But you need a bodyguard more right now to tell you you’re being stubborn.”
“Then I must be stubborn too,” I interject quickly. “Because I agree with Moffy. I don’t think we should move out.”
Thatcher’s jaw contracts. He’s only looking at me.
I explain fast to him, gripping my mug tighter. “The townhouse is our home. We shouldn’t run in fear.”
Thatcher never drops his gaze. “It’s the most unsecure location, Jane.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not secure,” I note. “And I know that you both ”—my eyes ping between Thatcher and Farrow—“think we’ll be safer if we move, but I don’t believe we really will be.”
Maximoff nods strongly. “And we’ve been dealing with this shit for ages. It’s nothing new.”
“The Cobalt brothers don’t have drones smacking into their doors,” Farrow combats. “You know why? Because their front door is inside a hallway.”
Maximoff crosses his arms over his green crew-neck. “So we move and some drones quit annoying us? But, man, that’s not going to stop the possibility of a break-in. ” He uncrosses his arms just to motion to the door. “Cele
brity homes are getting broken into in fucking Malibu and Calabasas left and right and they live behind gates and security force fields. If a burglar wants in, he’s gonna get in. We can’t be afraid of it.”
“Burglar?” Farrow repeats, brows rising. “What did this fucker steal tonight, Maximoff? Tell me.”
Silence deadens the air, but none of us look away from each other.
I stand tall. Like my mom taught me. Chin raised. Shoulders back. Whoever says the truth aloud will make the truth more real.
“He stole nothing,” Thatcher says bluntly. “It’s looking more likely that whoever broke into this house wanted one of you to be home.”
The intruder wanted to put his hands on one of us. To touch us.
To hurt us. In some terrible way. A sickening feeling creeps down my body again, and my face twists in a cringe. But I look straight at Thatcher.
His strong, protective gaze is right on me. Such a source of comfort that I never want to leave.
I say softer, “How do we know that he’s not after you or Farrow? You’re both in the limelight as well, and Luna and Sulli live here too. They could be potential targets.” That possibility worries me.
Seeing them afraid always hurts more.
Thatcher looks deeply into me. “The active stalkers on our radar right now are surrounding you.”
Because of the Cinderella ad.
Farrow runs his thumb over his lip piercing. “And there’s one fucker out there who we know for certain wants to torture Maximoff.”
My stomach drops.
Nate.
I look from Thatcher to Farrow to Maximoff beside me. These are the three men that have been so inextricably affected by the bad apple that I brought into the house.
I clear a pained ball in my throat. “What’s the probability that Nate is the one who broke in?” It hurts even saying his name.
Thatcher explains, “The team is still looking into where he was tonight.” His eyes carry more security than anything I’ve met. As though to say, you’re safe in my arms no matter where he is.
I want to be shielded within Thatcher Moretti’s powerful embrace tonight, tomorrow, and next week and far beyond Halloween.
I’ve never met such a taunting dream. And this one is taunting me oh-so-very hard.
I take a tight breath. “I just want this to be out in the open. The threat of Nate is not enough to make me want to move out of the townhouse. In fact, it’s exactly why I think moving will serve little purpose.”
They all wait for me to explain. Their concern bearing down on me. This is the most I’ve spoken about Nate in a long while.
“I have a restraining order against him. If I move somewhere in the hopes of keeping my new address private from Nate in particular, I won’t be able to. One of the provisions of the restraining order is that he has to know my home address just so he can stay away from me.”
They all tense.
Thatcher’s nose flares, his eyes pierced like he could murder Nate.
Farrow is not much better, and Maximoff is cracking his knuckles next to me. His glare just as hot and deadly.
My coffee has gone cold in my hands. I haven’t even taken a sip. “To be frank…it feels more violating if Nate knows something that is meant to be private.”
Like the location of a new home.
I would much rather protect what we have. Maintain control.
“We’re not moving,” Maximoff reiterates, and this time, both Thatcher and Farrow nod without a single hesitation.
The need to scrub the house and myself clean hasn’t vanished. I set my mug on the coffee table. “Do you think you can check my room again?” I ask Thatcher.
Partly, I want him to ensure it’s safe. But really, I want to share his company for longer tonight.
He’s already headed to the staircase. “I can check now.”
33
THATCHER MORETTI
I know Jane better than I’ve known past girlfriends. I know she always tries to push forward with a lighthearted stride. I know that I handle things a lot worse. I’m about as fucking walled-off and shut down as they come.
With most people.
For as much time as we’ve spent around one another, Jane and I—we’ve never dug deep into the past surrounding Nate. Never breached anything personal, anything emotional. We just touched on security facts: Nate only got a short stint in jail and a restraining order, not allowed near Maximoff or Jane.
And I promised Jane I’d protect her.
I still take fault for the past. I’m her bodyguard, and a serious target wasn’t in my peripheral or even on my radar. And I’m not making that same mistake again.
It’s why I’m dialed into comms chatter tonight, and I sweep her bedroom a fourth time for threats and hidden cameras while Jane takes a quick shower.
The team is concerned the suspect broke in to bug the house.
“You need to check the outlets,” Akara tells me over comms. “Fake USB ports can double as cameras.”
I click my mic at the collar of my black button-down. “Copy.” I hike around the small room. Inspecting every outlet, and I pick up some of her blouses off the floor, folding them on her vanity stool.
I crouch and eye the electrical outlet behind her headboard, then I straighten up to a towering stance. Back on comms, I respond, “All clear.” Right then, my phone rings.
I don’t guess who it could be. Reaching the back pocket of my slacks, I pull out my cell. My gaze tightens on the screen.
Connor Cobalt is calling me.
I soften comms chatter in my ear. No hesitation. I have to talk to him.
He’s considered the king of this American dynasty—and he’s Jane’s dad. Guys on the team say Connor Cobalt is all-knowing, all-seeing like the Wizard of fucking Oz and if you have the honor of protecting him, you’ll come back with a higher IQ.
I can’t know what he’d think of me because to him, I’m just a bodyguard and a pawn in a ploy to protect his daughter.
My mission is to maintain professionalism. And it’s abnormal for him to be calling me while I’m not a lead.
I’ve never been the bodyguard to Connor Cobalt. Parents typically don’t reach out directly to their child’s 24/7 bodyguard. Not unless they’ve built some type of bond already with them. Like how Farrow was the bodyguard to Maximoff’s mom.
Parents, instead, communicate with the three leads , who’ll then pass intel to men on their respective force.
Connor should’ve called Akara. It’s likely he already did.
My brows pull together. I’m not slow to answer. I put the phone to my ear on the second ring. “Sir.”
“Akara knows I’m reaching out to you,” Connor says calmly. “I’m assuming you already know I’ve talked to my daughter.”
“Yes, sir.” I fix the cord to my earpiece.
Earlier, Jane spoke to her mom and dad over the phone. They were concerned about the break-in, but Jane told me, “My parents are brilliant at solving problems—but they know not to solve mine. And if I really need them, I recognize they are one call away from unlocking a cabinetry of battle armor and hell. But we have this covered.”
Maximoff and Jane like being self-reliant, and after the parents made a massive fuck-up at the Camp Away, not initially believing Jane about the incest rumor—they’ve tried to back off and not involve themselves.
“You’ve been a lead and a bodyguard for over six years. When it comes to the safety of my daughter, I value your opinion.” His calm, smooth voice never changes shape. “So I’m asking, is the townhouse safe for Jane to sleep there tonight?”
“It is, sir,” I say sternly.
She’s with me. I’m staying alert so she can sleep peacefully. It’s my job. My duty. I add, “We’re posting more guards outside tonight to secure the perimeter.”
“I heard. Do you think it’s enough?”
I sweep the room while I talk. “Yes, sir. Farrow and I are prepared if anything were to happen. We’re co
nfident in our ability to defuse all targets.”
We know this townhouse is safe. We just wish it could be safer.
Farrow wouldn’t let Maximoff spend the night here if he believed the threats were critical. I wouldn’t let Jane. We’d already pack their shit up and drive them to a hotel.
But it hasn’t come to that.
Hopefully it never will.
“Thank you,” Connor says. “I’ll keep in touch.” He hangs up. Brief. To have longer conversations with Connor Cobalt, you have to be important to him.
I pocket my phone.
Floorboards creak.
I turn my head a few seconds before Jane appears. Already dressed in a long-sleeved, collared pajama top and matching pants. What some bodyguards and family call her grannie jammies —and this blue pair has images of kittens and yarn balls.
She’s cute in them.
Jane twists a towel around her wet hair, and I watch as her blue eyes dart around the bedroom.
“It’s safe,” I assure.
“Thank you.” She shuts the door behind her. “I know it’s overkill to have you check again, but…I’m…” She lets out a tight breath and wafts her cotton top away from her chest. “Do you think it’s hot in here?”
Unsaid serious things are cranking up the fucking temperature. I go to the middle of the room and tug the cord to her ceiling fan. It whirls and circulates some cool air.
“It’s not overkill to check again,” I tell her deeply. “I wanted to.”
She starts to smile. “Do you think…could you check my closet, just once more while I’m here? I think seeing you do so…it makes me feel less apprehensive.”
I’m already there. Opening the mirrored closet door, I push through some of her skirts, and I use my phone’s flashlight to examine the darker spaces and clutter.
I sense Jane crawling onto the four-poster bed. Mattress squeaking. “Can I talk or will I distract you?” she questions.
“You won’t.” It’s not the first time she’s asked me this. I glance back at Jane. “I’d rather you talk.” I’m trained to listen to comms chatter and my client and scope out a room all at the same time.
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