“Stop,” I stress, pushing the lettuce back his way, “trying to give me narcotics.”
“Fuck.” Killian’s low, alarmed curse makes all of us go rigid, swinging our gaze to him. He’s looking at the laptop Tristian must have had opened earlier, tracking me through the house on the cameras. Killian stands, grabbing the gun from the bedside table. “Sy and Pretty Nick are coming up to the front door.”
Before I can parse that, he’s already plucking his jeans from the floor and pulling them on, marching out into the hall with the gun gripped in his fist.
Tristian and Dimitri are right behind, wincing and grimacing as they hastily pull on pants. “Stay here,” Dimitri orders, giving me a look that would be a lot more commanding without the swollen eye and pained expression.
Nervously, I watch them file out, and then scramble to the laptop, pulse kicking up as I see Killian appear in one of the little boxes labeled ’05 - Foyer’。 The doorbell sounds through the muffled distance of the house, but interestingly, Killian pauses at the front door. I wonder why at first, but then Tristian and Dimitri appear, standing tall behind him, and I realize he was waiting. For his backup. For his court. For his brothers.
When he swings the door open, I get a partial image of Nick on the foyer camera, but a full HD image of both him and his brother on the feed right beside it. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but from the looks of everyone’s posture, things are tense. Nick goes to put his hands in his pockets—casual, like an afterthought—but seems to think better of it, letting them hang at his sides instead. It’s an oddly apprehensive gesture from someone who looks and acts like Nick. He knows he’s outgunned here, even with his brother beside him. He’s trying to look non-threatening.
Killian stands with one hand on the doorknob and the other grasping the jamb, gun visible in the waistband of his pants. His posture, the ink over his muscled upper body rippling with tension, is a clear signal that they’re not welcome in, but perfectly free to try.
I take a few moments to locate the keystroke that cycles through the different audio feeds, but finally, I do, catching Nick in the middle of speaking.
“…and you know I didn’t have anything to do with that,” he’s saying, voice tinny through the speakers.
Sy’s voice rings out next. “He can’t keep hiding out just because your old man stuck his dick into some crazy.”
Nick agrees, “Let’s just hash this shit out.”
Killian seems to think about it, eyes narrowing as he observes him. He glances over his shoulder, and from the foyer camera, I can see him making eye contact with Dimitri, and then Tristian.
Each of them gives a nod.
Killian looks back at Nick and slowly lets his arm drop. “Ten minutes.”
I track them entering the house, through the foyer, and then into the den. But there’s a dead spot in the footage, and all I can make out is Tristian sitting in the armchair closest to the entryway, Dimitri on the sofa beside him. The others must be up by the fireplace.
Nervous yet determined, I leave the room just as I am, clad in nothing but my panties and Killian’s oversized hoodie as I bound down the staircase. I don’t really give it much thought—none of them are wearing much, either—until I get close enough to the den to hear their voices.
“Rath,” Killian’s voice rumbles. “Go upstairs and get her.”
“I’m here,” I say, tugging the sweater closer to my knees before stepping forward into the room.
From the first glance, I see I was right. Sy is standing in front of the fireplace with his arms crossed, his perfectly defined eyebrows furled in annoyance. Nick is stiff at his side, both their eyes instantly jumping to mine. Their similarities are more striking than ever with the two of them side by side, but so are their differences. Sy is well-dressed and just as immaculately groomed as I remember. But Nick is wearing a wife beater, grimy jeans, and his hair is a mess. Their eyes—their features—might be similar, but it stops there.
There’s a pause, and then Sy lets out a begrudging greeting. “Lady.”
Killian, Tristian, and Dimitri are all looking at my state of dress, gazes dropping to my thighs. I don’t miss the possessive flash in Killian’s eyes when he grabs the throw blanket from the couch, nor Tristian’s hand on my wrist, dragging me into his lap. I settle there, flushing as Killian drapes the blanket over my legs.
“What’s going on?” I ask, hoping to divert everyone’s attention.