I begin to speak, but she holds up her hand. "I’m in no hurry to die. I promise, I’ll be around to make your lives miserable for a very long time. But I’m also practical enough to know that no one can cheat death. And none of you are getting any younger." She fixes me with what can only be described as gimlet eyes.
"Is that your way of saying that I need to settle down?"
She sniffs. “If you want to father children, you’d better get on with it. Sperm motility is a thing, after all."
Did my grandmother just talk to us, her grown-ass grandsons, about our sperm? I blink, not sure if I understand what she’s getting at. "You mean?—"
"Yes. Exactly. There has been much talk about women needing to freeze eggs so they can have children later in life. The same applies to men." She cuts her palm through the air. "Male fertility declines with age. Sperm quality and motility deteriorate after thirty-five. Biology doesn't care about gender equality."
"You want us to freeze our sperm?" Beckett winces. "Doesn’t feel right saying that in front of you, Margot. But then, you’ve never been the usual grandmother."
"You mean, a weak, mousy old woman who lets people walk all over her?" She sniffs with disdain, as if the very thought is an insult to her DNA.
"I'd like to think you raised us with enough backbone that we'd never dare." Gideon's voice is smooth as aged whiskey. He's only a year younger than me, but while I prefer to communicate in grunts and glares, Gideon could charm a viper into giving up its venom. It works. Margot bestows one of her rare smiles on him, the kind that could end wars, or start them.
"Guess it's too late for me, then." Tristan’s the first to give up the attempt at being polite. He follows Margot’s example and slides his cigar between his lips. "I’m past forty."
"Never too late to start." Margot doesn't miss a beat. She pulls her phone from her Hermès Birkin—which is worth more than most people's cars—and fires off a message. "A specialist will be in touch with you. You'll thank me later."
Tristan's face goes slack. The cigar starts to slip from his mouth like his brain just short-circuited. He catches it at the last second, fumbling like he's never held one before.
He opens his mouth; probably to tell her exactly where she can shove the specialist, then thinks better of it. His jaw snaps shut.
Smart man.
I, apparently, am not a smart man.
"I'm only a year past your arbitrary deadline," I point out, unable to stop myself. "I still have time."
Wrong move.
Margot's eyes sharpen like she's just spotted prey. "On the contrary, I have high hopes for you." She pauses, letting that land like a grenade. "Sure, Phoenix is married and might produce an heir soon. But considering you are my oldest grandson; your child would hold a very special place in the hierarchy of Hamilton inheritance." Her smile could cut glass.
Jesus Christ. Margot can be casually male chauvinistic and twist it to make it sound like a compliment.
I catch Tristan's eye. He gives me the subtlest head shake. His expression signals, you absolute idiot, why did you engage?
Yeah. Should've kept my mouth shut.
"Time you did something about it, don't you think?" Margot's eyes gleam with predatory satisfaction.
Fuck.
I do not like that look. That's the look she gets right before she dismantles a competitor or orchestrates a hostile takeover. My stomach drops like I've just stepped off a cliff.
I can lie in wait for the enemy for twelve hours without moving. I can take down a target from half a mile away with a single shot. I've survived firefights and insurgencies and situations that would break most men.
But trying to outmaneuver Margot Hamilton?
That's a mission I can’t hope to succeed at.
"You know what you have to do." She sets down her cigar with the built-up ash in the ashtray, then taps her fingertips together.
I blow out a breath. "Let me guess, you want me to accept the ol’ ball and chain, then spawn?"
"Hush now, have some respect for your future wife." She smiles widely.
And that was akin to a shark showing their teeth.
