“Are they dangerous?” he asked.
I considered the question, recognizing that he was inquiring about the men in the dining room, not his obviously deranged nephews.
“Hm. Not particularly, no.”
His eyebrow rose. “Ro.”
“They’re accountants.”
“…That does not answer my question.”
“Can’t you just wait for our guests to get here? I was planning on making introductions then.”
I carried the tray past him toward the dining room.
Wes followed.
The dining room looked beautiful, if I said so myself. The long walnut table gleamed under the soft pendant lights, and the modern architecture was all clean lines. The view of the trees surrounding us was very nice too.
At the center of the room sat two men duct-taped to dining chairs.
They were placed opposite each other like dinner guests.
One had tear tracks streaking down his face. The other was trying very hard to hyperventilate through the tape over his mouth.
I set the tray down between them.
“There,” I said approvingly. “Perfect.”
Wes pinched the bridge of his nose.
“Doll…”
“Yes?”
“You kidnapped two accountants.”
“Yep.”
“For what?”
I smiled, but before I could answer, headlights swept across the tall windows as a car turned up the long gravel drive.
Right on time.
“Oh, good,” I said, clapping my hands once. “They’re here.”
A sleek black sedan rolled to a stop outside the front of the house. Through the windows, I watched the driver’s door open.
Greyson stepped out. Tall, thick, and dressed in a charcoal coat that probably cost more than the average person’s monthly rent, he looked more like a hot English Lit professor with old money than a therapist who’d kidnapped his patient.
Lane climbed out of the passenger side a moment later.
Where Greyson was controlled, Lane was as fluid as water. I didn’t agree with the way their relationship had started, but I could admit that they were honestly perfect for each other.
I hadn’t known Greyson before he’d had Lane, but Wes had shared enough stories that I got the idea. Greyson may have kidnapped Lane, but Lane was the one who had him wrapped around his finger. To be blunt about it—Wes’s eldest nephew was a simp.
The Greyson Wes described before Lane was in the picture was someone much harsher than the man who catered to his love’s every whim, dropping thousands whenever Lane so much as glanced at a shop window.
