The possibilities truly areendless.
Byron’s face is still. Eyes far wider than they should be after such an explosive orgasm.
He has his phone up to his ear, a vice-grip in his fist as I pull myself together. We just fucked on the kitchen counter, and it was brilliant, as it always is. Not only that, we were really getting lost in the marriage talk.
I’m not sure what came over me with the whole obsessively demanding that he ask me to marry him while he was pounding the life of out me thing. Call my standard possessive jealousy, after bumping into his ex…Michelangelo.
Daft ninja turtle wannabe.
Yes, I’m salty, but that’s only because the bloke is gorgeous, and the way he was looking at my sweet fury was a bit too reminiscent of the things I read inByron’s Book of Secrets—before it was an actual book. Back when it was just a journal, full of his secrets that only I knew.Well, me and the people in them.
Not only that, I may have a dusting of marriage fever, since all of our mates are doing it. Literally. Velle, Rook, and Joy are the only ones who seem to have no interest in tying the knot. But Felix and Lem did it.
Dascha and Kemper did it.
Luthor and Ren are in the process of planning their extravagant nuptials.
We’re the only ones left, and I suppose I went a bit cuckoo for a moment there. Still, I don’t feel that it was entirely ill-received. At first, we were rowing over it, but naturally it turned to hot, aggressive and slippery sex, as it does.
Maybe it was just sex-talk, but I don’t think Byron is horrified by the idea of marrying me.
That’s what we should be celebrating right now. The fact that we’re in love and moving forward—away from Michelangelo.
But now our post-coital cuddle time is being interrupted by whomever is on the phone.
“Um… hi,” Byron grunts into the phone, clearing his throat. “Hello. How, um… are you?”
My forehead lines.Who could he possibly be speaking to that way?
Unless… No. No bloody way.
That’s not Michelangelo, is it?? He wouldn’t immediately call Byron after running into him, would he, that little slag?!
Wrenching the phone away from Byron, I place it on speaker, ready to tell that pretty, blue-eyed hussy that Byron Kang ismine, and he’s going to lose his fingers, his tongue, maybe even his life, if he doesn’t fuckall the way off!
But my raging is interrupted when a familiar voicenotbelonging to Michelangelo Russo croons over the line, “I’m quite well, actually, thanks for asking. How have you and Trevel been?”
“Ivory?!” I croak, gaping at Byron, who’s still in a bit of shock.
None of us have heard from The Ivory in well over a year, since he left the mansion—hismansion—in the middle of the night, flying away with his little bird to an undisclosed location.
His mansion has since been inherited by the Chevelle’s and the Love’s, the island having been turned from a rock of miseryinto a beautiful and quite lovely place to live. And visit, when those of us who left are able.
Byron and I haven’t spoken with The Ivory, and neither have any of the guys. We suspect that Velle has been in contact with him, but he hasn’t mentioned it to us. His money, however, is still very present in all of our lives.
Byron and I enjoy making our own. I wouldn’t mind accepting a check fromDaddy Ivory Warbucks, but my sweet fury is stubborn and doesn’t enjoy taking handouts. So we work our menial jobs, knowing that living in Byron’s grandfather’s penthouse means we no longer have to worry about rent. It’s strictly to pay for our elaborate vacations and our lifestyle that just borders on bougie.
Still, we’re no Luthor and Ren. Those two spend other people’s money like it’s their job, which apparently it is.
Hey, I don’t judge. Do you, kweens.
“Trevel Fenwick!” The Ivory chirps. “How lovely to hear your voice. I take it you and Byron have been getting on well? How are you enjoying the penthouse?”
Byron and I share a look, gazing around at the ceilings as if we expect to see the cameras that used to follow us around the halls of the Pen.
“How the hell did you know we moved?” Byron snaps.
The Ivory chuckles. “Did you really think I wouldn’t be keeping tabs on all of you? You’re like my children, as weird and potentially inappropriate as that may be, all things considered.”
