Against all my natural instincts, I’m about to do something I haven’t done since my siblings were small and it was necessary, other than with my five-year-old nephew.
I do not bend.
And yet that’s precisely what I do. For her.
Bringing our faces closer, without touching her so we don’t incite more rumors than will already be running rampant, Igive her one more chance. “I’m trying very hard to allow you to maintain some agency. I’ve got about fifteen seconds of restraint left in me because half of my goddamn employees are drooling over you, which is making me damn near delirious with rage. And if I turn you over my knee and spank your perfect ass for defying me before I throw you over my shoulder and cart you out of here, like I want to, it will be done. The choice of where you belong and who you belong to will no longer be yours.”
I see it register in her eyes, and I know she understood the KORT bone I threw her that day in the city, even if she doesn’t grasp all it entails.
Maybe the greatest testament to how deep I’m in this is that I can’t bring myself to drag her out of here, even though I want the entire resort to know she’s off-limits. I won’t rob this woman, who is capable of any damn thing she wants, of the decision to have a different life. I also can’t fathom ever letting her go, but that’s an inner battle for another day.
She bites her lip, grabs her purse, and slides off her stool. The crowd parts, like we’re masked bank robbers fleeing the scene, and as soon as we make it back to the vintage library, the alarm ceases.
I guide her through the lobby and into the elevator, ignoring the inquisitive expression she casts my way.
“Where are we going for dinner?” she finally manages to ask.
“My penthouse.”
She sucks in a deep breath, more visibly nervous than I’ve ever seen her. “You’re taking me to your home? With your family?”
I’m sure she’s contemplating what that means. I claimed I was giving her a choice, but this would suggest otherwise.
My phone buzzes incessantly in my pocket, but I’d bet my life that it’s the family text thread, blowing up with GIFs of me andZara, so I keep my focus docked on her. “Yes. Family dinners are mandatory, and we’re already late. I hope you enjoy games.”
Her throat bobs on a swallow, and she quickly looks away, but not before I catch how glossy her eyes are. I want to wrap her in my arms and ask her if she’s scared, if she’s been abandoned here, if she’s still trying to break free. Or if she wants to stay. But we should see how tonight goes first. Who knows? Maybe she won’t fit.
That would be an insurmountable line. Though based on my track record with her, there could be a canyon between us, and I still wouldn’t be smart enough not to chance a leap.
When I open the door to the penthouse, “I Love Rock ’n’ Roll” by Joan Jett & the Blackhearts is blasting, and several voices are shouting the lyrics, including Remy’s, whose might be the loudest.
Zara muffles a laugh beside me, and I’m instantly irritated that she’d hide it. We haven’t had much opportunity for carefree laughter.
“C’mon.” I glide my hand over the small of her back and guide her to the great room, where the floor-to-ceiling windows bathe the room in tangerine because the sun is clocking out for the night.
Before we’ve fully entered the space, Remy greets us with a bloodcurdling shriek of, “The floor is lava!” while straddling the top of the jukebox.
I’m forty years old, and I’ve never brought a woman home, so it would stand to reason that when I did, my entire family would be balancing precariously on the furniture. Like a zoo exhibit.
“We homeschool him,” I mutter to Zara, which might be the dumbest explanation I’ve ever given for anything.
She finally grants me her ebullient laughter before she kicks off her heels, breaks into a sprint, and springs through the air in a graceful front tuck, seamlessly landing on the far corner of thecouch, ten feet away, her shiny tresses flying behind her like a cape. The feat garners a round of applause from my family.
Remy’s eyes widen in excitement before flitting to me as he whines, “Uncle Axel. Lava!”
Jax is doing a headstand on the back of the love seat, his blue hair draping the leather, his heels holding him steady on the wall, beside a Picasso painting, and his hands free. He snaps his fingers. “Wake up, Papa Axe. You’re about to be scorched by the floor.”
Cash flashes his smug grin as I remove my shoes and suit jacket. He’s lying across the sideboard cabinet, like a fucking centerfold model. “Late and an inability to follow simple instructions. The disrespect is out of control. Must be your generation.”
I level him with a glare. “You’re only enhancing the temptation to have you six feet under within the hour.”
The room erupts in cackling and more belted-out song lyrics. Even Bernard—the dog—gruffs a retort, though I think he might be sleeping standing up and chasing a squirrel in his dream.
“It’d be cheaper,” Ryker jeers, knowing it cost me half a million dollars to enter the Underground. He’ll be harping on that for years to come.
He, Mercy, and Tessa are planted on the vast kitchen table. This entire area is open concept. Art Deco charm. Black-and-gold color scheme. Priceless art and nostalgic photographs. All in an expansive but cozy space. If it wasn’t for Zara, I’d join them on the table, but I’d like to stay near her, even for this bizarre game. So, with Remy barking orders at me to get moving, I jump to the couch cushion.
Maddox is planking between two chairs, as if he were lying on a beach. “It’s a floor-is-lava and musical-chairs mash-up of sorts. Find a place, keep it until the next song. As long as Remycan pick a fitting tune, he calls the shots for where you land next.”
