I nod, swallowing the urge to come clean.
"It's not so different from meeting someone in a bar or hooking up through an app," Dylan cuts in, smooth as ever.
He's ignoring our lie of omission like it's nothing, playing the charmer while I'm mapping out all of the possible repercussions.
"Thank you." She angles her chin up at him, and my blood simmers. "The bonus for doing the auction is the amazing track record."
It pains me to think how close we came to losing her forever. I'm not one for fairy tales, but the synchronicities that led us to her are unmistakable. "We heard about the track record. You're in this for the promise of a happily ever after? Life of luxury?"
Her laugh bubbles up, light and teasing. "And all the orgasms I want."
Dylan stops next to one of the viewing rooms—a large space with mirrors on the walls and a leather sex chair in the middle. He swings the door open, motioning her inside. "We better get started."
I grab his arm to yank him back, but he slips in after her, leaving me no choice but to follow. He's always been like this—a chameleon, shifting to fit the moment while I vie for control. It's not that he lacks integrity; the guy's solid. His brain just paints everything in shades of gray where mine uses black and white.
We haven't had time to strategize since learning about the auction. I thought for sure we'd be able to talk to her before she took the stage, get her out safely, not win her with a contractual obligation to fuck her. The thought twists my gut, but not for the reasons it should. I don't dislike the obligation. Hell, part of me craves it. But lying to her? That's the wrench.
She spins around, surveying the room, the mirrored walls. "No hiding in here."
Exactly. I open my mouth. "Look, Molly, we're your—"
"Future." Dylan interrupts, glaring at me.
I pivot back to her but he drags me toward the door. "Just a second, Molly. Look around, see if there's anything you want to try."
We move to the far end of the hallway, away from prying eyes. He pins me with a stare. "Are you trying to ruin this?"
"We should be honest."
With no hesitation, he says, "She was honest with us. Told us she wants to do this with whoever wins her. The fantasy. The HEA. Do you want to give that to her, or let someone else?"
"She deserves to know we're related."
His voice drops. "Do you think any other man in this place would unpack the skeletons from his closet before fucking her? The only guarantee is we've got good intentions." He pauses, his eyes narrowing. "Plus, we read her diary. She literally wants us. We know her fantasies from her own words."
Those entries torment my soul. How can I be the older brother, role model, and want her the way I do? Dylan knows the diary nearly broke me, particularly the entries he doesn't like to speak about—the ones where she calls me Daddy. Christ, I've ached to hear that nickname tumble from her lips, instead of her fingers. My resolve cracks.
My growing gray area overtakes logic, leaving only one demand. "We have to tell her our names."
"And if that sparks a memory?"
"We'll take it from there."
"It's too risky."
I stride back toward the room.
"Fuck," Dylan mutters, trailing me.
Fewer onlookers mill about now, and gratitude floods me. I don't want anyone watching her. She's mine—ours—to protect. To claim.
We return to the room. She's waiting, hands on hips, brow arched. "Cold feet?"
"No," I choke out, struggling with letting my carnal desires take over. "We're good."
Dylan nods, easing the tension. "We want to give you that promise of a happily ever after."
She crosses her arms, a playful smirk tugging her lips. "Let's back up a step. We have a contractual obligation to get an orgasm out of the way. And you've got your work cut out for you because I've given myself some pretty damn good ones."
