“Let go of me!” She tries to yank free, but I hold steady.
“Aria, you need to leave.” Charles moves to my side, presenting a united front. “Now. The truck is already loaded. You can go to the guest house, or you can go somewhere else, but you cannot stay here.”
“If you want me gone, you’ll have to make me!” She’s fully hysterical now, pulling against my grip, her voice rising to a shriek that probably carries all the way down to the librarywhere four children are trying to have a normal afternoon. “You can’t do this! I won’t let you!”
She lunges toward Charles, arms outstretched, and I see what she’s trying to do—throw herself at him, make a scene, maybe try to seduce her way back into his good graces. It’s pathetic and desperate, and I’m done watching it.
I step between them, catching both her wrists now and spinning her around smoothly. The move is one I practiced a hundred times in my living room while the boys napped, preparing for threats I hoped would never materialize. My hands secure her arms behind her back—not painfully, but firmly enough that she can’t break free.
“Let go! Charles, make her let go!”
“Walk,” I say calmly, guiding her toward the stairs. “Your dramatics are unnecessary.”
“You can’t do this!” But she’s stumbling forward because she has no choice, her designer heels clicking frantically against marble. “Charles!”
My brother just watches, something like admiration flickering across his face as I escort Aria down the grand staircase like a bouncer removing a drunk patron. The staff have wisely made themselves scarce, though I catch glimpses of faces peeking around corners.
The front doors are open—the moving truck visible in the circular drive, already mostly loaded with her belongings. Afternoon sunlight streams through, painting everything gold and merciless.
“This is assault!” Aria shrieks. “I’ll sue! I’ll tell everyone what you did!”
“Please do,” I say pleasantly, steering her through the doorway and out onto the front steps. “I’m sure they’d love to hear about how you refused to leave the home of your ex-husband after being asked politely multiple times.”
We clear the threshold, and I release her with a small push—just enough to get her away from the door. Not enough to hurt, but enough to make my point.
She stumbles in her ridiculously high heels, careening forward?—
—directly into someone standing at the base of the steps.
Strong hands catch her shoulders, steadying her automatically. For a split second, she freezes—not from the stumble, but from the touch. Her face does something complicated. Something that looks almost like hope before it crumbles into something else.
Then just as quickly, those same hands push her away. Not gently. Not carefully. Like she’s contaminated. Like touching her physically hurts him.
“Watch it,” a voice growls. Deep. Rough. Familiar in a way that makes every nerve ending in my body light up like a warning system.
Silas.
Aria’s still standing there, staring at him. She opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, but he’s already looking past her. Through her. Like she doesn’t exist.
He’s staring at me. Not at Aria, stumbling in her heels, crying and cursing. Not at Charles, standing in the doorway behind me. Not at anything else in the world exceptme.
17
PARKER
I’m frozen on the top step, my hands still raised from shoving Aria away, my chest heaving slightly from the adrenaline of the confrontation. The afternoon sun is in my eyes, but I can still see him clearly—taller than I remember, broader, all that teenage lankiness filled out into something solid and dangerous. He’s in all black, funeral-appropriate, his storm-gray eyes locked on mine with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe.
He’s cut his hair shorter. There’s a new scar along his jaw that wasn’t there six years ago. His shoulders have filled out in a way that makes the black shirt stretch across his chest, and when he moves—just a slight shift of weight—I can see the controlled power in every line of his body.
It’s been years since I’ve seen him this close. Since I’ve felt the weight of his attention like a physical thing.
“Parker,” he says, and my name in his voice sounds like a prayer and a curse all at once.
Then my brain catches up to what my eyes are seeing, and the world tilts further sideways.
Cal stands to Silas’s left, and oh God, he’s devastating. The sandy blond hair I remember is longer now, falling in deliberate waves that catch the afternoon light. He’s in dark jeans and a black button-down that fits him like sin, sleeves rolled to his elbows to expose forearms that are somehow both elegant and strong. Those amber eyes—Noah’seyes—are fixed on me with an intensity that makes my skin feel too tight.
And Jace. Christ. Jace is on the right, and he’s transformed from the serious boy I remember into something that looks carved from stone and violence. All black suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. Military precision in every line of his body, from his cropped dark hair to the way he stands with his weight perfectly balanced. His steel-blue eyes—Liam’seyes—track my every movement like I’m a target he’s acquired.
