The two of them bump fists. Jackson shoves off the wall and stalks from the room, Wyatt on his heels.
If Dalton notices, he doesn’t let it show. He and Samson are too busy crowing over how lucky they are to be single.
I let Neo tug the vest over my head. There’s so much concentration in his face as his deft fingers buckle it tight, checking the fit.
The two of them are wrong. So fucking wrong.
The rest of us are the lucky ones.
Suddenly, Neo’s request seems absurdly small. If this gives him some comfort while I’m gone, then I’ll strap one of these to me every morning. Anything to make him happy.
Huh. It’s odd to consider someone else’s feelings. Don’t get me wrong, I take those of my brothers and their loved ones into consideration, but this is different. Neo is different.
I don’t care for him because I have to, because it’s part of my obligation as the head of the family and The Firm.
I care because I want to.
“I’ll be safe,” I murmur. “Don’t worry.”
“I’m not worried,” he lies. “Now go, before they get in or disappear.”
I nod. He’s right. We’ve taken long enough to prepare. I can see on the screen that they’re still loitering outside Neo’s window.
My Neo’s window.
Doesn’t matter. Even if they run, they won’t escape.
I’m not the only Buckingham who likes to hunt.
My brothers move out after me, our guns drawn. Samson has his axes and several knives attached to his thigh.
I’ve told him that isn’t exactly the most efficient, but he’s determined. Says he wants to practice his axe-throwing skills.
We spread out when we exit, our footsteps quiet against the grassas we move through the gardens. Our father taught us this, using a whip if we made a noise.
It’s times like these that I can appreciate the training, and come to terms with what we learned.
I hate how he went about it, and despise the scars and bruises I was left with. Not to mention the lifelong trauma, but all of us move like cats through the expansive yard because of it. Our hands signal as we grow closer, the intruders within reach. We can see their forms, despite the dark camouflage they’re wearing.
I can’t imagine this is the Umbra with how sloppy they’re being, but then again, they’ve been careless before. We all come to a stop, guns drawn, Samson lifting an axe over his head.
He makes a signal. I shake my head, but he doesn’t listen.
The men are outnumbered, and he has axe-throwing skills to practice.
The axe flies through the air, slamming into a man’s head. Only it’s not the blade that hits him. It’s the axe’s poll.
Samson grunts in disappointment just as Matthias, Dalton, and Harley disarm the startled men, tackling them to the ground and stabbing their guns against their backs, yelling at them to stay down. A shot wasn’t even fired; no one has been harmed.
Yet.
The only one bleeding is the man struck by the poll of Samson’s axe. He’s lying dazed on the ground, rubbing his head.
“You are terrible at axe-throwing, Brother,” Matthias says, and Samson flips him off.
“It’s a work in progress. Father said they were too cumbersome.”
“I mean, it did work,” Cade says, pulling out a cigar and lighting it.
