by Angel Payne
“Yeah. That’s about right.” I barely strain the snip from my tone before murmuring it. “But he finally took the man at his word, at least long enough to ask him why the Scorpios are ready to place such a public offer on Faline’s demise.”
“Demise.” Lydia only says it once out loud, though it’s clear she’s mentally rolling the word around several more times. “That’s exactly what Atticus said? ‘Demise’?”
“No,” I reply. “His exact term was that the Scorpios want her taken out.”
“So what does that mean?” Neeta inserts. “Do they want her killed or simply destroyed?”
“They likely don’t care,” Trixie states. “As long as the woman is fully separated from them and the Consortium.”
“Which essentially doesn’t exist any longer anyway,” I fill in. “Especially after Reece and I had a chance to fill the man in on the full extent of the Consortium’s experiments and procedures.”
Lydia sits up higher while openly scoffing. She hangs on to her finishing grimace. “Okay, back up that drug-smuggling canoe, sparky. Are you honestly telling me that sexy boy Scorpio told both of you that he had no idea what those freaky Frankensteins were doing down in that lab? Even after they A-okayed the procedures and then snuggled in their beds with visions of super soldiers dancing in their heads?”
“No back-rowing necessary,” I state. “Believe me, every upper-level Scorpio boss, as well as his or her lieutenants, knew exactly what they agreed to let the Consortium do—at the beginning.”
“And what the hell does that mean?” ’Dia demands.
“Exactly what it implies,” I return. “That the Consortium’s scientists laid out exactly what the protocol was going to be for their ‘unconventional experimentation,’ designed with the goal of ‘expanding the possibilities of human DNA.’”
Trixie frowns before prompting, “And if superpowers were the outcome of all that…”
“Never occurred to anyone that they would be,” I fill in.
“Ah.” The new glow across Angelique’s skull relays her emphatic agreement. “Oui. That explains much.” She explains, as soon as we all pivot openly curious stares to her, “In the early days, there was little to no organization down in the hive. Most of the cells were set up with minimal security. The leaders of the project were biogenetics scientists who had been handpicked by Dr. Verriere, the mastermind behind the whole concept. They were beyond brilliant in their fields but, like many geniuses, had no idea how to cope with the rest of life. Several of them barely comprehended how to operate microwave ovens or television remotes, let alone things such as steel containment fields and neutralization cuffs.”
“What about Verriere himself?” Lydia queries.
“He was…not there.” Angie’s face clouds during her distinct pause.
“In the lab?” My prompt is cautious because I’m halfway to figuring out the gruesome answer anyway. “Or…at all?”
Her skull turns a melancholy blue. She turns, meeting my stare directly. “He was Test Subject Zero.”
’Dia gives up a heartfelt sigh. “And like most patient zeros…”
“Oui,” Angie rasps. “Dieu ait son âme.”
God rest his soul.
“So Faline got hands-on about running the show—and ran full speed with the power rush too.” Trixie’s comment, while totally true, earns her a wry grimace from my sister.
“More times than not, history is about luck more than anything,” Lydia grumbles.
“Never more true than with the Scorpios and their unwanted ‘discovery,’” I reply.
“Is that what Atticus implied?” Angie asks.
“More or less.” I stretch out my legs even more, pumping my ankles to get some much-needed stretches. Tromping back and forth between the Brocade and the Biltmore has given even my muscled stems some well-earned shin splints. “He was pretty tight-lipped about most of it, but I got the gist of it in his subtext. Long story short, while the Scorpios thought the superpowers were cool and all, nobody in their organization was interested in being the next Professor X or Tony Stark. They’re in the business of quietly making money, not commandeering a battalion of electric mutants who are ready to tear down cities.”
A hefty sniff from Angelique. “Which must have made Kane’s stunt an interesting twist.”
“Especially because it was just six weeks after Reece publicly called them out.”
“Ohhhh, shit,” Lydia follows up to my statement. “There was that…”
“After the one-two battering rams of those events, they put little Fa-Fa on their version of professional notice—and that was before they even knew I’d been transitioned.”
“Which explains why she went to ground for the months before the wedding,” Trixie puts in.
“Which apparently was fine by the Scorpios,” I explain. “Atticus told us they all hoped she’d chosen to get the hint and skulk away in peace. They had the order they wanted back at the Source, where they thought the scientists were back to work on the issues they cared about, like what the electric advances were doing for human cardiac stamina, physical agility, disease immunity, and high-stress survival.”
“Bingo.” Lydia nods like a kid pointing out that Lucky Charms turn milk the color of barf. “Super soldiers.”
“Yes,” I concede. “But that was only a small part of their bigger picture.”
Neeta jerks up a little. If there’s really such a thing as a lightbulb over someone’s head, I’m sure it’d be manifesting over her high ponytail this second. “Because the pharmaceutical applications for all of those advances is much more lucrative than any military contract.”
“Bullseye to Miss Jain.” I soothe Lydia’s tiny pout with an affectionate wink. She takes the setback with stride, even handing back my sangria as she wraps her newly free arm around one of the bed bolsters.
“So when did they find out that Fa-Fa wasn’t off working on her tan and half the hotties in Ibiza?” she poses.
I shoot her another wink. “Three guesses, and the first two don’t count.”
She’s ready with an equally sassy grin. “When the footage from your reception went viral.”
“Big gold star to the lass with the luscious rack.” After reveling in her blush and dodging her bolster toss, I go on. “Long story short, they were just as floored as everyone else at the footage—especially when they did their version of digging into the whole thing and learned very quickly about the woman’s not-so-secret plan of ‘elevating’ the human race with a worldwide army to do her bidding.”
While I’m really only restating the truth everyone already knows, they all react to it like a fresh—and staggering—revelation. If we weren’t already lazing here like lionesses on the veldt, I imagine they’d all be searching out chairs to sag into.
Neeta’s the one who relocates her voice first. “That was probably not the best news for a group controlling most of the world’s underbelly.”
“And living better than most kings because of it,” Lydia states.
“Straw, meet the camel’s back,” Trixie chimes in.
“And Atticus Scorpio, meet Reece Richards,” Angelique concludes.
I let a good minute of silence pass, letting them all absorb that mass of holy-freaking-shit details, before speaking up again. “Once we heard all of that, Atticus’s arrival, as well as his proposition, almost seemed like no-brainers.”
“Combining resources for a common goal.” Angelique finishes that with a small but indecipherable smile. It’s a smile, but the attached sheen in her eyes is definitely not tears of happiness. “Simple elegance in theory; an utter bitch in execution.”
And now full awareness clobbers me. She’s thinking about the moment when that full idea struck her, as well: sometime during her incubus of heartbreak and horror, after being told that Tyce had been executed. She’d sucked it up and decided to come to us in secret, despite knowing her word would be mud and her promises trusted as much as quicksand.
&nbs
p; “But not utterly impossible.” I focus the assertion completely at her, praying she sees the deeper message I can only convey with my own smile—and all the assurance and friendship and gratitude I can possibly flow into it. While I’m not ever going to be happy about the pain she’s caused Reece, I also have to accept that his unique path landed him in LA to begin with, with his heart and soul in the right place to see and feel mine. The two circumstances go hand-in-hand. Perhaps the stars would have aligned to make us meet that night in the Brocade, but he would’ve still been the same prince of arrogance as before, and I’d have never been able to feel the impact of the hero he was always meant to be.
“No.” Angie utters her reply with soft meaning, at once conveying that she sees and feels my meaning. The light in her eyes warms to the shade of spring grass as she adds, “Not utterly impossible.”
The others take quiet sips of their sangria, letting Angie and me have our meaningful moment—which gets its perfect relief in the form of my sister’s snorting levity.
“So…Team Bolt and Team Scorpio, in bed together at last. Wouldn’t Netflix have a blast with this orgy, yeah?”
Before we’re all done with our requisite giggles at that, Trixie hikes herself up on an elbow, coyly teething her lower lip. “Speaking of kinky fun…”
“Definitely a great subject switch,” ’Dia laughs out.
“Did your adventures with Mr. Scorpio include any discussion about whether he’s single or not?”
“Oh my God,” I manage to blurt.
“Oh yasss, Mama Bear.” Lydia leans over to make a quick sign of the cross in front of Trixie’s face. “Sister ’Dia approves. That boy is Godiva chocolate fiiiine.”
“And a boss for the world’s biggest crime cartel? The bastard responsible for financing the Consortium in the first place?”
Thank every saint there is for Angelique and her level head—not that my sister is giving her protest a shred of credence. “One of the bosses,” ’Dia elucidates. “The man didn’t sign off on the decision all by himself. Sometimes bad boys just need to be shown that good can be just as sexy and fun.”
“Okay, hold up on that canoe.” Trixie flips a hand up, bitch please style. “Didn’t say I wanted to convert the boy—just have a little fun during his vacation from the dark side. Who knows? Maybe he’ll teach me a few things I don’t know.”
Neeta brightens. “Well, that does sound like fun!”
Fortunately, I find commiseration for my what-the-hell-is-happening glower across the entirety of Angie’s face. “Have I fallen through one of those damn dimension portals?”
“If so, I’m on the same ride,” I mutter.
“Pssshhh,” Lydia volleys. “Don’t listen to the damp laundry, T.” And then gives Trixie’s back some reassuring rubs. “You’re a vital, sexy woman with needs. There’s nothing wrong with scratching those itches.”
“Who’s scratching what itches now?”
All five of us start when Reece appears along with his soft, shrewd query. As one, we spew, “No one!” And then reward ourselves with a wild spray of laughter, inciting the requisite round of hysterical follow-ups.
“No scratching happening here, buddy.”
“Not a single scratch in sight. Nopey-nope.”
“Move along. Move along. Nothing to see here, pal.”
“We’re just sangria-sipping bunnies, shooting the shit about nothing at all.”
“Well, in that case”—Reece leans in and then down, slipping his arms beneath my back and knees—“you all won’t mind if I borrow this little bunny for a few minutes?”
My fellow bunnies, relieved they won’t be questioned anymore by Mr. Persistent himself, chime out their wholehearted approval of him making off with me as the prize. I can’t say that the plan sucks, wholly enjoying the feeling of being held safe and sound in his massive coils of muscle and sinew. After being required to put on my brave Flare face for so many days, it’s a blissful change to be simply his treasured girl again.
Until we get inside.
And I behold the four new visitors to our home, waiting up on the landing of the main entrance foyer.
A group of hunks who all look like they should be in a designer spread for GQ. Or at the front line of a Wakanda battle scene. Or on the covers of four hot romance novels. I’d take any or all of the above.
As long as I was doing it on my own two feet.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit!” It gets a seething repetition as Reece crosses the living room without setting me down, though at last, my irritation pierces all the way into the stubborn ox. As the bastard finally sets me back on my feet, there’s the hint of a shit-eating smirk across his face—though I have no time to smack it away before he grabs my hand and pulls me up the slate stone stairs.
Once we’re at the top, Reece tightens his grip in proportion to the tension beneath his “charming” smile. At the same time, I’m glaringly aware of the same energy flowing off his steel-straight posture and stiff limbs, his protectiveness a tangible force as he offers his free hand to Atticus Scorpio.
“Reece Richards,” the man says, bowing low. “Your home is beautiful. Thank you for entrusting us with the knowledge of its location and the use of your command center.”
“You’re welcome,” Reece responds with the elegance of a king in his castle. My swoon-worthy comparison gets help from his sleeveless, royal-blue hoodie, skintight black running pants, and the Danners in which he does all his training. If Henry the Eighth were alive today, these would’ve been the sporty monarch’s togs of choice. On the flip side, it’s not hard to imagine my man astride a massive destrier with his helmet tucked under one arm and a lance beneath the other. “And I apologize that we’re not able to offer any guest rooms for your use, but we’re at a full house with all of Mr. Foley’s Special Ops friends choosing to stay over.”
Atticus nods, his smile matching Reece’s for regality—beneath a gaze that’s already calling bullshit on half of what was said. He knows it; we know it. One: Reece isn’t sorry about the bedding situation at all. Two: he used the formality as a chance to remind Atticus that should they try anything beyond working side-by-side with us, he’s got a contingent of trained warriors at his fingertips too.
“Oh, please,” Atticus protests in a mild growl. “Do not waste a single worry about us. Our mobile housing unit made it up the grade fine. We will not be troubling you for accommodations.”
“You’re no trouble at all, Atticus.”
But he’s already telling another half-truth—at least from where I’m standing. “No trouble” is a relative term when it comes to this whole arrangement, and no amount of Trixie’s carefree flirting or Lydia’s lighthearted ribbing is going to untangle the knot of apprehension refusing to leave my stomach. And my nerves. And damn near every instinct in my body. While I manage to mask it long enough to get through the introductions to Atticus’s guys—named Athos, Porthos, and Aramis; I am not kidding—the uneasiness stays with me. None of my usual “shake it off” fixes are working, either.
After some downtime with the kids, forty-five minutes on the treadmill, and even some alone time with my favorite instrumental music and the newest Sierra Cartwright book, I finally give up and take an early evening bath. I pull out all the stops on the extras, as well. I soak for an extra-long time in the vanilla-scented bubbles, surrounded by my favorite patchouli-scented candles. Ariana Grande’s on my phone, playing through the wireless speakers in the ceiling. Just for the moment, I tell myself to focus on the words she’s singing. To just keep breathing.
In…
Out…
In…
Out…
“Bubble for your thoughts?”
I smile but don’t open my eyes. His arrival was silent but not surprising. I began feeling his energy, powerful and potent, between each of my steady breaths. Again, not a surprising meeting—since the man is as natural, vital, and intimate to me as air. Perhaps, right now, even more than that. As he rests on the l
ip of the tub, I go ahead and acknowledge that truth. The simple certainty that this is what I’ve been after all afternoon. The strength of him on the air. The force of him in my world. The connection to him in my heart.
I take another moment to savor the physical pleasure of his proximity, as well. The blend of his masculine spice with the earthy sensuality of the patchouli. The slide of his muscled thigh along the edge of the tub. And now, the gorgeous contrast of his deep growl against the backdrop of Ariana’s soft soprano.
“Okay…two bubbles for your thoughts?”
I giggle softly while lifting my stare up his form—before silently claiming the Luckiest Woman Alive prize for the day. The sight is beyond better than I expected. He’s ditched the hoodie and switched out the running pants for a pair of swim trunks. Random droplets cling to the ends of his hair, and pure joy inundates his stare. I drink in his naked torso as if it’s the first time I’ve ever ogled him, since all of my body feels exactly the same way. I’m warm and alive, sensitive and stimulated, needing more but openly wondering if I’ve had too much already. But more what?
And am I really asking myself that stupid question?
It’s all right in front of me. He’s right in front of me. So stunning and carved. So etched and defined. So burnished and brawny.
Holy hell.
Why does the bath water feel hotter by the second? And why does every little ripple or wave feel like a deliberate taunt across my sensitized nipples, my tingling thighs…and my quivering, impatient clit?
Why does the man pick now to start watching the bubbles as if he can see through them…and knows all that?
Why has it never felt more utterly awesome to have him reading my mind?
Awesome.
And awkward.
And absolutely craptastic on timing.
It has to be well after four o’clock. That means an army of fifteen hungry stomachs, including three Spec Ops hunks and an equal number of bottomless pits known as our children will have to be fed soon. No time for caving in to carnality and yanking his sexy-as-hell ass in here with me.
