Sean’s hand appeared on Devon’s shoulder. “It’s okay, Devon.”
“No, it’s not.” There had to be a reason.
Logic had to explain this away. How could it not? If it didn’t, then that meant chaos could overshadow his world.
And when chaos reigned, so did the blackness.
It would overtake everything. Staining every aspect of his existence, drowning and suffocating every beautiful thing.
Sascha.
What was more beautiful than Sascha?
A hand slapped at his back. “Snap out of it,” Sawyer said gruffly, the force behind the slap shoving him forward a good two steps.
The jolt had him sucking in a sharp breath. Staring at Sawyer like the lifeline he was, he murmured, “It doesn’t make sense.”
“What’s wrong with him?” he heard Sascha ask in the background, but he wasn’t certain who she was talking to.
Sean was close to him, but his mouth wasn’t moving. Sawyer was there, looking into his eyes, that impatient purse to his lips one Devon recognized, though in his gaze was the love he knew Sawyer felt for him.
Sawyer had been the first person to love him.
His mom had been too terrified of his father to spare much attention for her gifted son. She’d had too many things to do to please her husband. Too many endless chores, tasks that had to be done just so to satisfy the man’s endless need to maintain control over his family.
Only when Sawyer had appeared, had Devon known love. And even as it had warmed him, he’d felt the same panic as he experienced now. Love was chaos.
But because of Sawyer, he could reason it away. Loving Sascha hadn’t brought this chaotic deluge of fears. But loving the others had, back when he’d been in his early days at college.
“Devon, it’s okay. I told you before that women make no sense.” His bluntness had him sucking in a deep breath.
Devon cast Sascha a glance. “Is he right?”
The strain in his tone had Sascha stilling in place. There was the exasperation he was used to seeing, but it was aimed at Sawyer instead of Devon.
He blinked at the sight. “Sascha?” he asked hoarsely.
She gritted her teeth, mumbled under her breath, “I’ll get you back for that, Sawyer,” then to Devon murmured softly, “He’s right, sweetheart. Women don’t make sense.”
Her words had him sagging with relief. If both Sawyer and Sascha said it was so, and the others were nodding—he realized Kurt and Andrei had made an appearance—then it had to be true.
They wouldn’t lie to him.
He almost fell into the seat at the dining table as he watched the others get into their regular dining routine.
Sascha still had a cast on her arm so Kurt hovered around her, grabbing the heavy pots as she served up something that smelled like Shepherd’s Pie. But he wasn’t hungry. If anything, his stomach was still enduring the riotous calamity of panic.
Another hand came to his shoulder and squeezed. Recognizing Sawyer’s scent, he turned his head to the side to watch as his best friend ducked down, and asked, “You okay?”
Devon blinked. “I’m better.”
“What happened?” came the quiet question.
“She went from being…” He frowned. “Well, how she was in the living room. To being normal again. But nothing has changed. There’s no reason for her to be back to normal.”
Sawyer sighed. “I’ve told you, Devon. Humans aren’t like robots. Sometimes we just get over stuff.”
“I don’t.”
“You’re not a robot, but you’re a close descendant,” he teased, but Devon didn’t mind. He never did when Sawyer teased him. He only ever recognized the tone—the Scottish brogue turned into a rumbly burr when he was joking.
“So, she’s okay?”
Sawyer peered over at the woman who had taken over their home and their hearts. He studied her for a long while, then sighed. “I doubt it. She’s probably putting on a brave face.”
Before Devon could feel the panic rise once more, Sawyer’s grip on his shoulder tightened. “But that’s what a lot of people do. It’s just a coping mechanism. Getting on with ordinary, everyday chores helps them get back into the swing of things. But don’t keep mentioning it. She already looks like she wants to castrate me.”
Devon gulped. “You think she would.”
Laughter hung heavy in Sawyer’s eyes. “I wouldn’t put it past her.”
When Devon cupped himself, Sawyer hooted out a laugh. “It’s okay, buddy. Yours are safe.”
“What’s safe?” Andrei asked, cocking a brow at them. “Or don’t I want to know?”
Devon swallowed. “Sawyer thinks Sascha might castrate us.”
A silence fell heavily over the table.
“I doubt my daughter’s that brave, considering she knows it’s against the law.”
Devon shot Henry a look over his shoulder. “Sawyer said she would. Sawyer doesn’t lie.”
Henry rolled his eyes. “I don’t know how you put up with him,” he grumbled as he approached the counter where Sascha was working.
Laughter, as it had with Sawyer’s comment, was brimming on her lips, and she shrugged at her father’s words. “You get used to it.”
“I’m a him. Not an it,” Devon complained.
“You’re a mixture of both,” Kurt retorted, taking a seat opposite him, and winking as he did.
Devon never understood why a wink was supposed to take the bite away from a joke, but they all did it, which meant, as usual, he was the odd one out. Still, he placed his attention back on Sascha, watching as her father eyed her a second. She tilted her head to the side, presenting her cheek, and Henry kissed it.
“Take a seat at the table,” she directed him and her father obeyed. Taking the additional seat next to Devon’s right, because he always had Sascha on his left.
Always.
“Andrei? Could you grab the dish of vegetables?” Sascha asked, her accented voice still having the power to strip Devon bare. Even if it only involved her asking his friend to bring a dish of food to the table.
He watched as she moved away from the stove, her cheeks flushed from a mixture of the heat and exertion from cooking, as well as amusement at the conversation she’d just been a part of. He knew the latter was the truth because her eyes were sparking merrily as they hadn’t done in days.
Thinking about what had her so depressed only hours before, he shoved thoughts aside and tried to focus on the P vs NP problem that was going to further cement his and Sawyer’s names in the annals of math history.
The money didn’t matter, neither did the status. But a man’s reputation never died. It was one way to stay truly immortal, and though Devon didn’t want to live forever, he wanted his surname to live on. His mother’s maiden name. What he’d reverted to after he’d been of legal age. Cutting all ties with his bastard father. The one way he could truly snub him, and do so forever, was to shine a light on his poor, weak mother’s name and completely disintegrate his father’s legacy into dust.
Thoughts of that nature settled him somewhat, as did the calculation he ran through as he watched Sascha dish out the meal. He’d been right. It was Shepherd’s Pie. And though he’d loathed the concoction at school, he wasn’t sure how she did it, but it was one of his favorite meals now. Rich and buttery potatoes, and well-seasoned, rich and juicy beef, with vegetables so crisp yet perfectly tender; he loved when she prepared it.
Eagerly waiting for his portion, he grabbed the dish from her hand, which startled her into laughing.
“You never said you liked Shepherd’s Pie, Devon. It wasn’t on that little guidebook that you gave me at the start. If it was, I’d make it more often than I do,” she commented softly as she took a seat, running her hands down her luscious ass to smooth out her skirt before she did so.
“I didn’t tell you?” He was sure he had. But then, sometimes, he was sure he’d said something but actually hadn’t.
There were whole conve
rsations with Sascha that had never been uttered aloud, arguments with Andrei and Sawyer that would never hear the light of day but had been fully fleshed out in his mind.
He scratched his forehead. “I meant to.”
She smiled. “You’re too cute.”
His nose wrinkled. “Thanks.”
Her smile morphed into laughter. “You’re welcome.” As she reached for the wine Kurt had poured mere moments ago, she took a sip and murmured, “I wanted to thank you all for being so patient with me.”
Though the knives and forks continued scraping against the porcelain—the whole house grateful Sascha was cooking again and they didn’t have to endure more takeout—they all focused on her as they ate.
“We weren’t being patient with you,” Sean reasoned. “It isn’t about being patient.”
She bit her bottom lip in that way she had which made Devon want to slip his tongue along the curve to soothe the ache. “You know what I mean.”
“I do. But it isn’t necessary,” Sean immediately replied. Shooting her a warning glance, he continued, “Gratitude isn’t necessary. You’ve been through a lot these past two months.”
She let out a sigh and slumped against the chair. As she did, he saw her blouse, tight fitting and clinging to her curves, gape open, revealing the pouting flesh of one of her tits.
His mouth salivated at the sight. And it had nothing to do with buttery mashed potatoes and rich beef gravy.
Though she’d been more relaxed since her accident, he’d grown accustomed to seeing her in the tight pencil skirts she favored and the close-fitting blouses that somehow managed to hide and show everything in equal parts.
“Has it really only been eight weeks?” she asked no one in particular.
“Technically, closer to seven,” Devon murmured softly, watching as she hid behind the fall of auburn hair she let cascade over her face.
He loved her hair. It was straight, but she did something to it that made it wave around her shoulders and reminded him of the black and white movies he’d watched with his grandparents back in the day.
In fact, everything about Sascha screamed old world Hollywood glamor. He could picture her back then, with the pillbox hats and stocky heels. She wore the retro look so well that he often wasn’t sure if there was a Hollywood star dining with them.
Sawyer elbowed him, a sign he knew to mean ‘shut up.’ Devon rolled his eyes, used to the silent reprimand.
“Dad, there’s something I need to tell you.”
The table froze, well, apart from him. He watched as all the knives and forks were held in place for a good five seconds as the occupants processed her words.
Devon shot her a look, saw a resolution on her face that had him tilting his head to the side in curiosity.
“You do?” Henry asked cautiously, placing his cutlery on the plate as though preparing himself for a heavy blow.
Sascha gulped, then whispered, “You’re not going to like it, but it’s my choice and my decision. I can do anything I want to with my life, and…” She clenched her eyes closed, admitting, “Sean isn’t my only boyfriend.”
Devon had to admit, he hadn’t been expecting that.
Kurt let out a shaky sigh beside him, and Sawyer looked as though he’d eaten a brick.
“What do you mean?” Henry asked softly, but Devon got the feeling he was relieved. Like he’d been expecting her to say something else, but as she hadn’t, he could breathe easier.
“They’re not just my bosses,” she whispered, eyes popping open. From shy timidity to glaring self-righteousness, she was a ferocious tigress that got him so hard, his cock ached.
Fuck, the zipper on his fly would tear his dick in two if she didn’t stop with the sexy ferocity.
“You’re…” Henry clenched his jaw. “…seeing all of them? I knew something strange was going down but—”
She nodded, gritting her jaw too. “Yes. And if you don’t like it, you know where the door is.”
Sean cleared his throat. “That’s not necessary, Sascha.”
“Yes,” she snapped, her gaze ensnaring Sean’s in the tempestuous fire flickering around her irises. “It is. You’re mine. All of you are. I refuse to be ashamed of it. God only knows if it will leak to the press, and if it does, it does, but if by some miracle, we sneak through, then I want him to know. You’re the most important people in the world to me. The only ones who matter. You love me, and I love you. I refuse to be ashamed about that when it comes to him.”
Silence throbbed at her declaration, and Devon, unable to help himself, reached for the hand she had fisted beside her knife and covered it with his own.
He shot Henry a look and stated, “Really, it makes perfect sense, Henry.”
Sascha’s father eyed him. “What does?”
“Sascha’s a very strong woman. A facet of her nature you helped create by raising her the way you did. But she’s still a woman.”
Sascha narrowed her eyes at him. “Be very careful what you say, Devon.”
He blinked at her. “What? It’s true. We’re all really busy. We have careers that take over our lives, and we can’t be with you when you need us. This way, you’re safe. You’re always with one of us, unless you can be with us as a group like this.” He shrugged. “I’ve never understood why people make such a fuss about it. It makes sense for our household. We’d make a woman miserable if we dated her the regular way. But Sascha’s happy. Very happy, aren’t you?” he asked her, noticing the exasperation tightening her eyes.
She relented enough to sigh. “Yes. I’m very happy.”
“Quit while you’re ahead, Dev,” Andrei advised.
He shrugged again. “I don’t mind being yelled at if it makes everyone realize the importance of what’s going on here. She makes us happy, we make her happy. That’s the only thing that matters.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Right?”
For some reason, that had the tight purse of Henry’s lips loosening a little.
In all honesty, Devon figured Henry had worked out the truth anyway. After he’d helped Sean with the Jacobies the way he had, surely Henry had picked up on the fact they had a vested interest in Sascha’s safety.
An interest that far surpassed that of employer to employee, or that of close friends. The man was a cop, after all.
He eyed Henry a tad suspiciously, uncertain if he believed the man’s umbrage.
Then, shrugging it off, he smiled at Sascha when she flattened her fingers and twisted them in his so they could bridge them.
She let out a relieved sigh and smiled, though the look she shot her father’s way dared him to disagree as she stated, “You’re right, sweetheart. That’s all that matters.”
Thirty-Five
Edward Jacobie was nothing like the interviews.
At least, he was nothing like the interviews she’d seen of him over the years. The brash executive, with a yuppie-like style in his pin-stripe suits and gleaming shirts, all manicured hands and thirty thousand-dollar watches.
In real life, after the news of his family’s sordid past, he looked, in a word, exhausted.
His eyes were rimmed red and dark shadows bulged underneath green irises that were remarkably similar to hers. They’d lightened when they’d first met, and he’d sucked in a sharp breath, as he’d shakily admitted, “It’s crazy how much you look like my great-grandmother.”
Even now, twenty minutes into their awkward meeting, he kept on looking at her like he was astonished. Which made the already uncomfortable situation so much more discomfiting. But a picture of Sascha’s grandmother had been the key to the lock of this mystery.
On a visit to Jacobie’s country estate, Sawyer had noticed a picture of a woman who looked like Sascha, right down to the too-big hips constrained by a corset, the high cheekbones, and the same pouty mouth that was 100% sassy attitude. The woman was, as Devon had declared, Sascha’s sexy doppelganger. But she guessed that was inaccurate. Sascha looked like the woman, after all.
Their likeness had been the missing link to all the craziness that had been happening of late.
Where before they hadn’t been able to understand why anyone would want her dead or hurt, now they did. Jacobie was, after all, Britain’s answer to Zuckerberg.
There were a billion reasons why someone would have a problem with her heritage. And a handful of reasons as to why Edward was staring at her like he wasn’t sure if she was real or his great-grandmother reincarnate.
She folded her hands on her lap, watching as Andrei and Sean took charge of the conversation on her behalf. Edward had wanted to meet at his Canary Wharf headquarters, but Andrei had refused and had invited him here.
Though Kurt, Devon, and Sawyer weren’t in the kitchen, they were about the house somewhere. Hovering, undoubtedly, to make sure she was okay.
Her father had gone out for the morning, well aware of who was visiting today.
She wasn’t nervous. Not really. Edward Jacobie might be a big whizz in the City but to her, he was nothing. A nobody. They shared genes by chance. That was it. That meant nothing to her. Even if legally, that wasn’t the case.
She shifted in her seat, wishing this meeting was over. Hell, wishing the meeting wasn’t necessary, period.
Sean caught her eye and reached over to entwine his fingers with hers. She shot him a strained smile, let him toy with the digits as she played with the handle of her coffee mug.
She wasn’t certain how they were talking about business when Edward’s mother had planned to kill her. Even Edward’s sister had a hand in it.
Suddenly, the strain of the truth had her blurting out, “Why are you here?”
Silence fell at her words, and Sean tightened his hold on her hand when she made to pull away.
“There are things we need to discuss,” Edward said, smoothly segueing from their previous discussion to handle her exclamation.
“What? How your family planned to kill me? Little things like that?” she demanded.
He flinched. “That. And other things.”
“What other things?”
“Your inheritance,” he gritted out.
Hers To Keep: THE QUINTESSENCE COLLECTION I Page 47
