“She still doesn’t like me,” he huffs.
“Keep her away from my husband if you want her still breathing.” Raph’s threatening voice makes me freeze for a moment.
“Pink would give you hell,” Ren states. Ash hums in agreement.
“Good. I like when they fight back.” Raph places a bag on the table and sits on one of the chairs, pulling Michael onto his lap.
“Leave the pussy alone,” Ash says.
“The fact that you don’t like her doesn’t mean you have to get rid of her,” Dare adds, placing the plate filled with meat on the table. The triplets’ personalities might be different, but they always have each other’s backs.
“He wouldn’t,” Michael interjects, trying to stop the discussion.
“I would if it hurts you,” Raph corrects him.I know he would.
The smell of the steaks makes my stomach growl, but I hurriedly go for Pink instead and hold her against my chest. Not going to give him another reason to turn all murderous toward my cat.
“Kids and pets always have to be protected,” Michael recites the first part of the brotherhood’s code. A list of rules Linda and Meg created when the brothers were growing up, which they have to follow, or… I don’t really know what happens if they don’t.
Raph’s somewhat malicious tsk makes me tighten my arms around Pink.
“Please don’t hurt my cat,” I murmur. My pleading tone is not for Raph—he doesn’t care about my feelings—it’s actually directed at Michael, who can make his husband do whatever he wants.
And he doesn’t disappoint. “Raph, if anything happens to that cat, I’ll sell your entire knife collection on Etsy.” Sounds like a threat to me.
“Piglet.” Raph gives Michael a proud, predatory smile. “What am I going to use in bed then?”
Sheesh. I’ll never understand their relationship. But I envy how perfectly they seem to fit. Like a locket that found its key.
“Get a room!” Ren jokes.
“In the next county would be better,” Ash grumbles as he pierces a juicy steak with his fork before dropping it on his plate.
“Not before you try…” Michael pauses before sliding a large metal tray out of the plastic bag on the table.Oh no!“My paella!” he finishes, lifting the aluminum foil from it.
The silence that falls—better yet,crushes—is filled with dread.
Michael is a terrible cook, and usually his dishes look like something had died and laid its rotten eggs over the plate. But I have to admit that today, his paella doesn’t seem that bad. For starters, there’s no mold-green film over the rice or burnt edges.
“Why is no one trying it?” He moves his gaze over us, but out of the corner of my eye, I can see the others are using the same tactic I am: avoidance.
“Raph?” Michael’s voice has turned pitchy. “Why aren’t you grabbing your fork?”
“You are on my lap, babe.” That’s a pretty lame excuse.
“Bullshit! You don’t trust my cooking skills!” Michael accuses him.
“Trust kills faster than a knife,” Ren retorts darkly.
“But not faster than Michael’s food,” Ash mutters too loudly.
I hear Raph snarling before sliding his fork among the rice, meat, and fish—with some effort—and lifts it to his mouth.
Michael’s eyes sparkle with anticipation as he asks, “How is it? Be honest.”
“Yes, Raph, be honest,” Ash jibes. I’m not afraid of Raph, but I won’t provoke him like Ash does. Sometimes he acts kind of suicidal.
“It’s like a rotten fish has slapped a festering pig with a hell-hot jalapeño in my mouth.” He snatches a bottle of beer and downs it like he is about to die of thirst.
