Killian gives Rath a long, unreadable look. If I’m expecting support for any kind of intervention, then I’m highly disappointed, because Killer just nods, saying, “Send me a picture,” and then walks away.
Rath throws a lazy salute on his way up the stairs.
Rolling my eyes, I briefly consider waiting in the hall for Story to emerge, but decide that there’s no reason to. She won’t kiss me. Not if we’re at home, alone. On campus, sure. We have to keep up appearances for the sake of Royal business, so it’s fine there. I get to hem her in against a pillar overlooking the courtyard and lick into her warm mouth. I’m allowed to let my hands wander to her ass, giving it a nice little squeeze. If I kiss down her neck to leave a bruise beneath her ear, then that’s just expected. Our weekly parties have some leeway, too. I can pull her into my lap and let her weight press into my hardness. I can take her earlobe between my teeth and stroke her thighs. I can grab her chin and turn her to face me, taking her mouth in a filthy kiss—as long as it’s just for show.
But when it’s just us?
I can barely get her to brush up against me.
And it’s driving me slowly, fucking insane.
I let myself be distracted by the day laid out before me, which is pretty easy. Dinner with the Paynes—aptly named—is bound to be some sort of torture. It’ll be our first interaction with Daniel on a social level since Killian shot him. His injury wasn’t bad. His son made sure about that. It was a warning, but there’s going to be fallout. Something tells me the rings under Rath’s eyes may not only be about being cockblocked. He owes Daniel something for saving Story in the pit. No one knows what.
I guess we’ll find out soon enough.
The sound of banging pots is the sign that Ms. Crane is already awake and working in the kitchen when I get downstairs.
“Did you pack the mashed cauliflower?” I ask, peering into the cooler. “And the Brussel sprouts? I told Posey we’d bring them.”
“You mean the stuff that smells like a hooker’s twat?” Ms. Crane shoots me a glare as she flings open a window. “They’re in there. I don’t know why anyone would want to eat something that smells like rotten spunk, but go ahead. Pass it around.”
“Because word on the street is Story’s mother isn’t the best cook,” I reply, lifting the cooler. “Thanksgiving for her is probably heavy on the carbs with a side of turkey. If everyone else wants to get a heart attack during dinner, that’s their business, but I’m eating this.”
“Like anyone else would eat that putrid smelling garbage.”
“Sure you don’t want to come?” Rath asks her, strolling into the room. He doesn’t look much better than when I saw him in the hall, but I can tell he’s showered and changed, and the sunglasses he’s wearing hide what are sure to be bloodshot eyes.
She snorts. “Unlike some people, I prefer to spend my holidays with people I trust, not a houseful of thugs.”
“You live in a houseful of thugs,” I point out.
“And you’re all leaving,” she volleys back, giving me a disdainful look. “Best hope you come back in one piece. All of us know better than to think Daniel Payne is going to be hospitable to the likes of you four.” The old crone vanishes into the pantry and shuts the door, sealing herself in her tomb.
Rath stares at the closed door for a moment, but then his face scrunches. “Jesus, what is that smell?”
I pull the cooler defensively closer, pointedly ignoring him. “That was quick,” I note, nodding toward the stairs. “Usually it takes you forever.”
Rath chomps on his piece of gum, giving me a lazy shrug. “It was a functional nut. Clear the tension. Get the blood flowing. You know what this dinner is all about.”
Sighing, I pull my jacket off the hook beside the door. “It’s an ambush.”
“Nah,” Rath says. “Ambushes, you don’t see coming. This is Daniel trying to measure us up.”
“I guess that’s what it is for us, too.”
We both turn at the sound of her voice, finding our Lady standing in the doorway. She’s wearing a knee-length black dress with a scalloped neckline and short lace sleeves. To my eternal fucking torment, she’s wearing her hair up off her neck, which is adorned with a string that’s been wrapped around it three times and secured in a knot at the base of her throat, the ends dangling toward her cleavage.
I could seriously use one of those hour-long, jack-off sessions right now, but since we don’t have time for that, I try to pry my tense jaw apart long enough to greet her. “Story. You look—”