“Why would we have a problem?” Jax asks. “I’m sure you’ve already thought about how him being a Keeper is going to complicate things for us, but whatever. If this is a thing, then that’s all we need to know.”
Killian kicks his feet up on the coffee table and points at Jax. “What he said.”
I nod. “I have thought about that, and it’s a thing. I don’t know what exactly, but it’s something.”
“Then that’s all we need to know.” Killian echoes Jax.
“Where’s your better half?” Jace asks, changing the subject as he hands me back my phone.
“Hanging with Eden.” Killian tosses me a smirk. “And where’s your something tonight?”
“Hanging out with his friend West,” I say, still a little shocked at how everyone already knew about us, and how unbothered they all are.
Jace flicks his gaze to Jax, then turns to his computer and starts the shutdown process. “So, are you fuckers coming into town with us?”
“Hell yeah,” Killian says. “We were just waiting for you nerds to finish up.”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure Damon isn’t Blake, so he’s not connected to the blackmail files,” Jace says, still facing his computer. “But we also figured out someone tried to kill him back at the start of school after he and Xave were kidnapped together.” Jace tosses me a sly grin. “Just in case you needed something to talk about while I finish up here.”
My cousins’ expressions tell me I’m in for an interrogation, but that’s fine. It’s a relief that I don’t have to hide this from them anymore, and it’ll be good to get them up to speed.
Now that I know for sure someone is after Damon, I’m not going to rest until they’re no longer a threat.
I might not understand what’s going on between us, but Damon is mine, and I pity the asshole who dares to target him because he won’t just have me to deal with—he’ll have my family.
And we always protect what’s ours.
19
DAMON
“Didyou finish that paper for Risk Management?” West asks as he flips through the pages of his finance textbook.
“Which one?” I ask, not looking up from the class notes I’m reviewing.
“The one that’s due on Monday.”
I lift my eyes and find him giving me his trademark puppy-dog eyes.
“You mean the one that’s worth thirty percent of our final grade and was assigned to us in the first week of class?” I ask dryly.
“Yeah, that one.”
“Yeah, why?” I ask, even though I already know what he’s going to say.
West and I haven’t had many classes together because I’m a year ahead of him, but him procrastinating until the last minute and wanting to look at my notes or assignments for “inspiration,” as he calls it, is nothing new.
“Can I maybe take a look at it?” he asks. “Pretty please.” He makes praying hands and widens his eyes, really selling the innocent, kicked-puppy look he’s so good at.
Considering West is six feet tall and built like an elite athlete with sculpted arms, broad shoulders, a washboard stomach, and thick thighs, his innocent faces should make him look ridiculous, but somehow they work for him.
Part of that is because of the golden retriever energy he has going on, plus his blond hair and light coloring do kind of give him an angelic, even cherubic, look thanks to his baby face and big blue eyes.
“Yeah, that doesn’t work on me,” I tell him, looking back down at my notes.
“Please,” he says, all traces of his light and teasing tone gone.
I look up at him again, and the seriousness in his expression makes me pause.
