Carry Your Debt (The Pantheon #2)

Chapter One

“You see now, don’t you? The Gray Man already has his replacement heir.”

Just the simple act of swallowing is proving a feat right now, my throat working double time against the snarling mess of anxiety that’s taken up residence there. It’s a persistent, slow-creeping sort of dread—unleashed by the hand-delivered bombshell lying in wait for me at my office this morning.

A seed of pure chaos, eager to take root from within an unmarked envelope the moment I arrived at my desk and flicked through the mail.

At first glance, the unassuming package had seemed like a boon. Hundreds of pages, and each one filled with clandestine accounts, assets, purchases, contacts, meeting details. All brand-new-to-us information, and all of it designed to help paint an increasingly clearer picture of Sebastian’s twisted intentions for our organization.

Untraceable, of course, but two months into my Crew’s temporary exile—and desperate for any kind of lateral movement against my father—I was hungry and ready to count my blessings.

That was until I found myself being completely and utterly fucking blindsided by a single and concise set of DNA results from Lexington Diagnostics.

My very fate condensed into the equivalent of a two-page lab report, and casually slipped into my in-tray before the start of business.

A second biological Grayson child.

Technically, and perhaps rationally , I know this makes the kid family. My half-brother .

But that’s not what I convinced myself of as I spent a solid three hours poring over every inch of Tristan Sinclair’s file. The very one my Crew had put together during their Academy reconnaissance.

I only saw a son, now of age. A spare. Direct evidence of a Gray Man legacy contingency plan.

And my doom.

We'd figured for some time now that the power and protection afforded by my position would only stretch so far and for so long. Now, I can only assume that my team is being earmarked as Gray Men collateral as we speak.

Laying eyes on Sabine has certainly helped my blood pressure, and although my throat still feels as though I’ve been gargling broken glass, at least the steady war drum of my pulse is finally easing off. The payment for so many hours stuck in survival mode, however, is now every muscle across my back and jaw throbs with post-adrenaline fatigue.

But seeing the disturbed look on Sabine’s face tells me that getting any semblance of rest would be close to impossible, anyway.

I wince.

Fuck.

Logically, this is when I should look away. Break eye contact, stand up, regroup, and begin reviewing our contingency plans. After all, I can physically see that she’s here. That she’s safe .

But logic has not just left the building, but the entire fucking city, and those arresting gold-flecked, gray irises are doing a stellar fucking job of holding my entire body hostage. Always beautiful, but always locked down like Fort Knox, they’re now quietly simmering with something akin to banked horror.

It’s not an overt display of emotion by any means—but I can honestly say I’ve never quite witnessed this level of vulnerability from Sabine Winters before. Certainly not in the years following the Belgian’s insidious ‘re-programming’.

It’s almost… disconcerting.

In my periphery, I clock the minute tremor that runs through her fingers, the edges of the lab papers unceremoniously crumpling wherever she grips them. She hasn’t even had a chance to read the rest of the documents yet.

“Sabine?” I croak again, the stress clear in my tired voice.

When she still doesn’t answer me, my next breath feels like it takes an hour. But with her continuing silence comes an unexpected cascade effect on my own emotions. The longer I wait, the more that gnarled tangle of unease wrapped around my neck and rib cage warps, morphing slowly into something else .

Something that reads a whole lot more like... satisfaction. Preening like a proud alpha, and all because our ice queen’s frigid walls appear to be melting thanks to a threat to our mortality.

Whatever it is, it’s a harsh and greedy beast—one that, if I dare unmuzzle it, would howl my dark truth for all to hear.The truth being that for the last year, I haven’t only wanted to protect Sabine Winters, our prized asset in an impending civil war.

No.

I’ve wanted to possess her.

And by the time I’d noticed the shift from familial affection to something… more , it was already too late. She’d lodged herself inside my chest like a piece of stubborn shrapnel; made a home among those quiet types of thoughts where obsession grows.

She’s now the reason I spend every waking moment shoring up the walls of my self-control.

My need to compulsively second-guess each and every move on the board before I make it.

My one and only exploitable weakness.

My Achilles heel.

Which, of course, is why my father’s strategy had involved plucking her directly out of my sphere of protection, and why giving into these darker desires of mine would only paint an even bigger target on both our heads.

Why right now, loving Sabine Winters—in all the ways I crave—would be nothing short of mutually assured destruction.

But that self-restraint I love to extol is dancing on a fucking knife’s edge, and my thoughts are quickly turning intrusive once more. I groan inwardly as my cock kicks enthusiastically against the pleated front of my tailored pants.

Depraved images of all the ways I could have her, if I dared.

Consume her .

Admittedly, it’d be nothing but a half-life for either of us—but at least I’d have access to some part of her.

Despite the hunger that’s now burning a path down my abdomen, at this very moment, I find myself needing to know how she’s feeling. What she’s feeling.

Because Sabine Winters is a fucking iceberg, and I don’t think there’s a single person in existence who knows exactly what lays beneath that severe, outer mask.

So, in place of mauling her, I grit my teeth and silently will my dick to back the fuck down, initiating an assessing sweep across her sharp features instead. I'm not sure what it is I’m hoping to find; reading micro-expressions and postural tells isn’t exactly an option when it comes to Sabine.

But I’ll work with what I’ve got.

What I can see is those mesmerizing eyes of hers are still a little glossy, a little dazed. Her skin’s definitely more pale than usual, which I suppose is to be expected, given her recent shock. I do notice that the apples of her cheeks are flushed a light pink, though.

Curious. I didn't know Sabine even could blush.

My focus pulls down to that naturally pouty mouth before reluctantly continuing a clinical path down the front of a wrinkled shirt—one that’s been haphazardly tucked into an equally creased skirt—all the way down to a pair of bare, sandy feet.My gaze returns along the lithe length of her, up past those subtly reddened cheeks, before ending on tousled, platinum blonde hair.

I stiffen then, clenched teeth grinding.

Jesus Christ.

She looks freshly fucked.

I inhale, my nostrils flaring.

Not a blush.

Freshly fucked.

The beast lowers its head, claws digging painfully into my chest wall.

Almost as if she can hear my thoughts, Sabine’s lips part on a soft intake of breath. She leans back, the slightly scattered look in her eyes sharpening as she absorbs the latent hostility in my own expression. A host of stilted emotions plays out across her face: desire, then confusion...no, wait— fear ?

But no sooner do those feelings breach the usually calm surface of Sabine’s mask than they slip back under, her expression immediately cooling in their wake. All that remains then is that all too familiar apathy, and I can’t help the heavy pall of disappointment that settles over my shoulders in response.

That blink-and-you’ll-miss-it spark I’d glimpsed in her eyes? I need more.

I also need the identity of whoever the fuck she was just out with.

Chewing on that particular mystery has my pulse ratcheting right back up and my slacks tightening even further. So I stand abruptly, twisting my hips so Sabine doesn’t take direct evidence of my runaway thoughts to the face.

Yet , the beast hisses, lowly. Yet.

Pushing an aggrieved hand through my hair, I tug on the strands in frustration. With my back still to her, I manage to pull in a single, settling breath before biting out, “Go take a shower, Sabe. We’ll discuss our next movements after you’ve freshened up.”

By some goddamned miracle, the reigning Queen of Back Talk doesn’t utter a single word. She simply rises, rounds the couch, and heads in the direction of her bedroom—all in complete silence. The only sounds then are her feet as they pad softly away behind me and my own harsh breaths.

A moment later, I hear the shower kick on from behind the nearest wall. Without further thought, I find myself gravitating toward the sound, leather shoes eating up the remaining distance. My forehead thuds against the exposed brick, and my aching shoulders drop with a lengthy sigh.

However, before I can begin indulging in thoughts of Sabine less than a few feet away from me— alone…naked…soaping up —I hear the gentle scratch of a key slipping into the apartment’s front door lock.

I spin, Raptor in hand and aimed squarely between the amused eyes of a familiar intruder.

“Rhett,” I grunt, mind still racing, and arm lowering only somewhat reluctantly as I take in his casual appearance. I suck down a growl.

Is this who she’s been with tonight?

I’ve seen the looks they shoot at each other. The way they both always seem to conveniently disappear at the end of a Team night out.

“ Ohhh-ho , Daddy Zeus is home!” my Second singsongs, completely ignoring the gun in his face and swinging the door shut with a large, booted foot.

I narrow my eyes. “ …Daddy Zeus? ”

Instead of answering, he tosses me a suggestive wink before bending down to scoop up Sabine’s fallen set of keys. He drops them onto the small lamp table by the entryway like he lives here, and then he’s stalking over to the kitchen, opening a cabinet, and pulling out a glass—again, like someone who’s played out this routine a hundred times before.

The ease with which he moves around her space shouldn’t incense me the way it does, but I can’t help it. I’ve been forcibly iced out of Sabine’s life by Sebastian’s edict for months now.

Meanwhile, she’s been here in Roxborough, free to do whatever she pleases.

Whomever she pleases.

They both have.

My jaw clicks.

“She’s in the shower,” I say gruffly, as if he can’t hear the water running from a few feet away.

Rhett turns from the sink to lean lazily against the counter, drink now in hand. Striking eyes flick toward the bedroom before coming back to settle on me. He only hums in response, sipping at the water with exaggerated care. Then I’m being subjected to a slow, critical inspection; my hair and suit no doubt both looking as stretched thin and disheveled as I’m feeling.

A single blond eyebrow quirks at what he finds.

He’s clearly enjoying my discomfort.

Bastard .

“Someone keeping you up at night, boss?” my world-class shit-stirring Enforcer drawls in that infuriatingly charming way of his.

What the fuck?

“Watch yourself, Orbison,” I snarl back. Not even he’s getting a free pass when it comes to keeping this Sabine-sized preoccupation under wraps. No one can know just how deep the cracks in my armor run.

It’s the only way to keep her safe.

He doesn’t so much as flinch at my bristling, holding up his free hand in mock surrender. He grins. “Your secret’s safe with me, Capitano.”

Jesus Christ . I’m way too fucking tired and on edge to be juggling two brats today. They're both as fucking bad as each other, and at this point, I’m not even sure whose attitude is rubbing off on whom.

What I do know is I sure as fuck need to stop thinking about them ‘rubbing off on each other’ before my jaw slips and I crack a molar.

To give my shaking hands something to do other than wrap themselves around Orbison’s thick, corded throat, I concentrate instead on sliding my jacket off and draping it neatly across the back of the closest dining chair. Rhett continues to smile across the rim of his glass as I carefully roll and cuff my shirt sleeves. The actions are calm and deliberate, unlike the current state of my insides.

Those are fucking rioting .

When his tongue darts out, gliding along his bottom lip while he observes me, the motion sends another angry jolt through me as I’m forced to picture Sabine’s mouth all over again.

And what it might’ve been doing right before she got back to her dorm.

My gaze travels down the indolent length of him, discreetly searching for some material evidence of their sordid tryst.

A lipstick stain. Sand.

Why? Because she smelt like the beach, weed...and another man’s cum.

And I need to know whose .

“Were you two just together?” I ask, coolly.

Evenly.

The perfect picture of restraint.

“I was just the getaway vehicle,” Rhett shrugs, hooded eyes dropping to the drink in his hand. “I was just moving the Lambo off campus after I dropped her off.”

With as closely as I'm watching him, however, I don’t miss the spike of tension in his shoulders. Or the way he’s studiously avoiding looking at me, as if that simple glass of water’s suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.

He’s throwing a massive front up, and it’s not with that typical Orbison insouciance.

Just what in the hell is going on with the two of them tonight?

“Who, then?” I prompt when he doesn’t elaborate.

“Miller,” he answers after a beat.

“ Miller, ” I spit back, though honestly, I can’t say I’m surprised.

Of course , it’d be one of the fucking Rox Boys.

I take a heavy step forward, my teeth rattling and fists clenching against my thighs. “And what about Sinclair?”

My heart’s pounding in my chest with thoughts of my half-brother’s hands on her body. It should be my hands tracing the hollow arch of her back, my fingers digging into those two mouth-watering Venus dimples that frame the top of her peach-shaped ass…

“Sinclair?” he echoes, all nonchalance, and it does absolutely nothing positive for my blood pressure. Neither does that fucking eyebrow as it lifts once again in obvious delight.

Christ , I shouldn’t want to commit such acts of violence against my best friend and team co-leader. I trust this man with my life, but the way he sees straight through me has me seeing crimson.

“Yes, fucking Sinclair . Has she been with him as well?”

Rhett straightens, abandoning all pretense along with the glass in the sink behind him before he crosses his gigantic arms tightly against his chest. The look on his face is knowing, but his voice is oddly solemn as he confirms my fear.

“Yeah, they hooked up at the Guardhouse, last weekend.”

The very last of my remaining nerves fry to a crisp.

“And why do you look so fucking pleased about that?” I hiss.

“I’m…not,” he hedges as if taking special care to consider his next words. But this is Rhett , so his pursed lips immediately tug up at the edges, shattering the sober illusion. “The only thing I’m pleased about is that Jackson Grayson is anything but. ”

Then that knowing smirk slides into a full-wattage smile, and my stomach unwittingly flips at the sight.

Like he knows he's got a direct line to my inner control, Rhett drops his arms and pushes away from his relaxed post against the counter. Evidently, at some point in our confrontation, I’d moved toward the threshold of the tiny modern kitchenette, and so my second-in-command is right up in my face with only two swaggering steps.

A single, inked fist wraps around my already loosened tie and tugs, gently. It’s not the first time Rhett’s flirted with me, but this time? This time, I feel that tug somewhere much further south.

“It used to be enough, y’know? Burying ourselves in a few too many drinks, and a warm body or two for the night.”

Somber olive-green eyes dart between mine, dissecting me in that studious way only he can. My loyal shadow for so many years, he must recognize each conflicted feeling reflected there as easily as he can his own.

I both love it and hate it in equal parts.

“Nothing lasting. Nothing serious. Nothing ever more important than just getting off,” he rasps.

But it’s no longer enough, I want to say, instead finding myself struck dumb by the sheer potency of being in such close proximity to the man I consider my best friend and right hand. After so many weeks apart, it’s almost the same level of smothering relief as being reunited with Sabine.

His forehead meets mine. It’s not enough anymore, he silently agrees.

It occurs to me that I haven’t had the chance to properly catch him up on the events of this morning—opting instead to spend the day reading up about Tristan and his friends while plowing through a bottle of Jameson. And now, for some reason, instead of diving into the usual debriefing, tonight seems to be the night the first domino of our collective self-control has decided to tip itself.

All of the tension that’d been culminating for months before our exile, balanced so precariously, still uncertain on which way it wants to fall.

I swallow, and that rusted, barbed wire in my throat?

It’s a jagged fucking thing, and it only tightens its grip further.