Orien’s lips purse. “Can’t wait.”
Rowan’s fingers stroke down my spine. “Drink?”
“Sounds good.”
At the bar, Ghost pours Rowan a whiskey, then turns to me. “What do you drink?”
I scan the bottles behind the counter. “Give me a Shirley Temple.”
“Fucking precious,” Rowan purrs as he wraps his arm around my waist and tugs me closer. “Should I buy some maraschino cherries for home?”
I twitch at the reference to his loft as home, but dip my head in agreement. I love those little sugar bombs and haven’t had them in years.
Ghost slides the fizzy over to me, cherries overflowing the top.
“Thanks.”
Saint raises his glass in my direction. “Welcome to the family, locksmith.”
I lift my drink, my mind still processing what’s happening. There’s that word again.Family.The word keeps resurfacing, loaded with implications I’m not sure I’m ready to accept.
“Don’t worry, locksmith,” Orien says with that same unsettling gentleness. “We don’t bite.” He bares his teeth. “Unless Rowan tells us to.”
A wave of laughter ripples through the room, easing some of the tension. Conversations resume, people shift and move, but the way they regard me has changed. I’ve been classified, categorized, and accepted into their ranks.
“You okay?” Rowan asks for my ears alone.
“Just... processing.” I take a sip of my drink, relishing the combination of sweet and tart. “This is more than a security job, isn’t it?”
His hand slides from my shoulder to the nape of my neck, fingers toying with my guard. “Yes.”
“And if I had said no?”
“You didn’t.”
His certainty should bother me, but it doesn’t.
Instead, it settles the restless anxiety inside me.
Rowan hasn’t just offered me a job. He’s drawn me into his orbit, where bodies disappear and debts are paid in blood. Where family is cobbled together from all walks of life.
And I’ve just accepted my place in it all.
15
The bedroom door clicks shut behind Rowan, and I stay still for five seconds before giving in and rolling into the warm spot he left behind, burying my nose in his pillow. His pheromones fill my lungs and wrap around me in an invisible claim that should be confining but somehow isn’t.
This has become our routine over the past two months, me sleeping past dawn while he rises to cook breakfast for Lena and me. I stretch beneath the covers, toes flexing as I catalog the small aches from last night’s activities and the pleasant burn left by muscles worked to exhaustion.
I can’t hear anything from the rest of the loft through the soundproofing, but Rowan and Lena willbe in the kitchen, talking over coffee. It’s part of their morning routine. The first week here, I would rush out of bed, still driven by the need to micromanage every hour.
After the second week, though, and then the third, my mind started to relax and trust in this new system, where Lena could get ready by herself, where Rowan’s driver would pick her up, take her to school, and bring her back safe.
Now, I linger in bed, allowing myself five more minutes of warmth.
When I finally pad to the bathroom, the tile floor chills my bare feet. Winter in Ashford Heights turns everything cold, even in buildings with functioning heat. I turn on the shower, waiting for steam to fog the glass walls, and spot a black leather case sitting on the counter, tied with a simple ribbon.
Curious what Rowan is up to, I flip it open to find a sleek nape guard nestled in velvet. After two months, Rowan has almost chewed through the cheap clinic-issued one I still wear.
