CHAPTER TWO
LIAM
My head is fifty shades of fucked up. I’m pouring a cup of coffee while gulping down stomach bile, sick about my morning meeting.
It’s less about the meeting and more about the girl upstairs. Christ, she fucks with me. That little dance she did with Ivy yesterday was nothing short of phenomenal.
Adorable. Carefree.
Seductive.
And a small glimpse of the rawness she so carefully masks for the rest of the world. I hate the polished and pretentious facade she wears. But that glimpse. I crave more from her. No idea why. Especially since when she opens her mouth, I want to strangle her.
I’m sour, thinking about her upstairs, sleeping on the air mattress in lieu of one of the dozen available beds—hers. Mine.
Fuck that.
Her shiny, dark hair was fanned out across the pillow, silky sleep shorts riding high on her round ass. Flawless olive skin and legs for days.
Yes, I peeked. Up at the crack of dawn for my workout and unable to resist the vision of her there, apricot-tinted sunlight trickling inside to showcase how every goddamn part of her shimmers. Regardless of how vexing she is, I’m still a man.
And Celeste Carver is the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.
If I avoid her like I did when she was here in July, this will go much smoother. Being that close to her last night was a mistake.
She smells like cashmere—not that I’m certain of cashmere’s smell, but I’d guess it’s soft and warm with notes of old money and sophistication. But there’s also an aroma of wildflowers on her skin and something I can’t name wafting from her hair. None of it matches. The spoiled Carver doll is an enigma, a myriad of contradictions. In my experience, that means only one thing. She’s not who she claims to be—hiding. Lying. Pretending.
That’s a lot to reap from a smell, but I’m trained to sniff people out. And as intoxicating as her scent is, it reeks of secrets. A princess living off Daddy’s money, on the prowl for a husband to assume that role, and mixed up in something she shouldn’t be.
I can sense it.
She’s so damn fake. So nauseatingly perfect.
I’m not against the rich. Shit, I have more money than I know what to do with, and it keeps rolling in. But I’ve earned every damn cent. Worked my ass off. Risked my life. Sold my soul. My wealth is dripping with my blood and sweat. Completely deserved.
Celeste doesn’t earn. She spends what isn’t hers. There’s nothing I loathe more, except maybe a person who pretends they’re something they aren’t. She checks both boxes.
She acts so confident and strong—easy when everything is handed to you. She’s more breakable than she lets on.
And, fuck, do I want to break her. If only to crack her open and peek inside. That’s why I asked her if that lighter, fresh-faced, dancing-on-the-stairs version was her last night. Her breathing sped up with that question, nervous. I’d like to think it was me who made her pant, but I’m thinking she was fretting that I could see whatever she was hiding.
Still, the heat rolling off her and that sweet scent were exhilarating. I wanted to tackle her, wreck her, graze my fingers over her voluptuous curves, fist her thick hair, and watch those plump lips wrap around my cock.
Best fucking way to keep her from opening her goddamn sassy mouth.
“Liam. Now,” Wells barks even though I’m ten steps from his office with twenty seconds remaining before I’m late.
“I’m right here, Chief,” I counter, crossing the threshold into the large space, simple with his live-edge Koa wood desk, matching bookshelves, and molasses-brown leather furniture.
While Ivy and I designed the majority of the rooms in this house, she and Wells decorated this office together. And she nailed it, down to the antique record-player cabinet quietly piping Mozart. So Wells.
He scowls, although he’s clearly not mad. There’s a playful glimmer. Ivy must’ve given it up good this morning.
Jesus, I love that girl.She’s made us all better, but softening Wells is her most miraculous feat.
“And almost late,” he says, chucking some Sour Skittles into his mouth.
“On time, almost late, not quite early. Same thing,” I argue, settling into one of the leather chairs and crossing my outstretched legs.
“Always such a goddamn motherfucker,” he growls, and I feel the love. Since he’s unable to resist furthering his point, he then throws in, “Early is on time, and on time is late.” We swap a lopsided grin, which is damn near a weeping hug of affection between us, as the phone trills on his desktop. “I’ll do the talking unless I denote otherwise.”
“Understood,” I confirm. He’d stare at me until I verbally responded anyway. Even if we missed the call. Stubborn fucker.
Our conference this morning is with Frank Carver, which, now that I think about it, needs to be kept confidential from certain houseguests. Frank is Celeste’s father. Wells must come to that same conclusion because he points to the door while I’m rising to shut it.
As soon as it clicks, Wells answers, connecting through a speaker. “Good morning, Frank.”
“Wells, thanks for taking time out of your busy day for me.”
“It’s never a bother,” Wells replies. “Liam Graves is sitting in for this. He’s been diligently digging into the leads with the Skulls, which he’ll share momentarily. He’s also the reason we’ve been out in front of this mess, which I’m sure you remember. Any developments on your end?”
Always extending credit. That’s the thing about Wells—he’s an unselfish leader. Although he’d never classify himself that way, he’d be wrong. He’s worked harder than the rest of us in many respects, had more on the line, more rights to the fortune and privilege, but never once considered not sharing it equally with Ty, Gage, and me.
“Not since the break-in. And I know you didn’t get much from them.” Frank sighs. “Otherwise, it’s thankfully been relatively quiet.”
In October, the Carver family home security system was breached because the home was empty, and we allowed it. We instructed the team surveilling to watch the thugs briefly before seizing them, in the hopes we’d gain intel on what they were hunting. Unfortunately, it wasn’t as fruitful as we would’ve preferred. We even held the guys for Gage, who was overseas with Wells and Ivy, visiting the Carver doll. If Gage can’t torture information out of someone, there isn’t anything to acquire. He’s skilled and patient.
“The only things they gave us were that the Skulls hired them, which we’d already suspected. And that they were in search of a black book,” Wells adds. “They had no idea what was in this coveted book.”
I connect my eyes with his for the go-ahead before probing. There’s a missing piece here, something we’re not considering, and it’s bugging the ever-living hell out of me. “Hi, Frank. Liam here.”
“Hey, Liam. Thanks for your work on this,” Frank says.
“No thanks needed,” I assure him. “I’ve been scouring the dark web more pointedly since that break-in, and there’s chatter about the book, mixed in with some indecipherable information. You’re sure you can’t think of what they’d be referring to? Deals gone wrong? Associates misplaced? A log of favors? A ledger of dues? Anything?”
“I’m not fucking stupid enough to keep a log of anything I wouldn’t willingly broadcast,” he snarls in frustration. I don’t take it personally. This is a fucked-up situation. “And The Order is not in the habit of working with or even cooperating with the Skulls.”
Makes sense. The Skulls are bad news. No doubt this will end in a heap of bloody carnage.
“Got it.” I scratch the scruff on my jaw, my gut tingling with unease. “It wasn’t an accusation, Frank. We’re aware of how thorough you are, but I can’t find anything confirming what’s in that fucking book. Without understanding what it is they believe you have, it’s difficult to anticipate the scope of this. Just attempting to spark something.”
“Fuck if I know. I’ve racked my brain, but I’ll tell ya, my patience is thinning.” The threatening timbre in Frank’s voice intensifies. “They’re fucking with my family, which is a sure way to find themselves on the wrong end of my business.”
By that, he means buried beneath one of his countless home developments in the Midwest. Frank Carver is a valuable resource to The Order and KORT. Aside from laundering money, specializing in land investments, and several other services provided through Carver Homes, that’s how he contributes. Burial grounds deep below a concrete and cinder-block foundation, housing years of family dinners.
Hearing the exasperation in Frank’s voice, Wells waves me off and takes over. “We’ll get to the bottom of it, Frank. These things take time, but I suspect we’ll find them covered in dirt at the end regardless. We’re ready.”
That’s a promise that we won’t shy away from taking the Skulls out, which is more out of respect for Tom—Ivy’s deceased father, Wells’s beloved mentor, and Frank’s closest friend—than KORT business.
I stumbled upon the contract out on Frank—or his company—and even though it should’ve been handed to Jared Austen, the leader of The Order, this isn’t a family we’ll leave unprotected. No matter the cost. Jared would’ve handled it fine, but it would’ve been with The Order as a whole in mind. That’s where Tom’s wishes would have varied. He’d want those he cared about, those in the most immediate danger, protected first. And we feel the same.
“Have you sent a threat to back off?” Frank asks.
“No,” Wells says. “This is a delicate situation. Showing ourselves too early could lead to bloodshed. We’d like to avoid as many casualties as possible, and in order to do that, we need more insight. It doesn’t appear that they’re working alone, and we don’t know what the hell they’re after. War without the spoils doesn’t pay. No KORT involvement will be revealed until we have a better handle on it.”
“Fine,” he grumbles. “I’m not thrilled with the time this is taking, but I appreciate your help. My wife is a wreck, even out of the country.” Frank and his wife, Ava, vacation every January in Fiji, which is why Frank was comfortable with Celeste spending the month with us. Extra protection. “Regarding my other Carver girl, Celeste doesn’t know about the break-in or any of this. Please tell me Ivanna is instructed not to spill.”
“We never informed Ivy,” Wells admits, to which I shake my head and guzzle a bitter swallow of coffee.
It’s not KORT business, but our girl is going to riot when she finds out we’ve kept all this from her. As her husband and my boss, it was Wells’s call though. I’m off the hook, other than having a front-row seat to the ticking time bomb disguised as a redhead.
“Do me another favor,” Frank continues. “After everything happened with Ivanna, Celeste started poking around, wondering about getting involved with my business—not merely the home-development side. My little girl is smart and fierce, but I want her as far from this shit show as possible. This isn’t the life she deserves.”
That information has me nearly choking on my coffee. Celeste interested in his business, getting her hands dirty? Working? What the hell is that about? What happened to the princess riding into the sunset with her fake-as-fuck senatorial prince?
“We’ll take care of her, keep her distracted,” Wells promises, relaxing into his chair, clearly not as thrown off by that admission as I am. He smiles, and I know he’s about to talk about his wife. “Ivy is elated to have her here, especially with the baby coming.”
“I’m sure,” Frank says, his voice conveying reservation that intrigues me. “My father knows a couple of hotshots in the political arena, sons and grandsons of his colleagues. He’s hoping she’ll get acquainted with them, see if she hits it off with either one. I’m not much for that scene, but I think it’s best. Can you ask Ivanna to encourage that?”
Encourage her? Isn’t that what Celeste wants? My head is fucking spinning with this conversation.
Wells chuckles, dragging a hand down his face. “My wife makes her own decisions in matters of Celeste and isn’t a fan of politicians, but I’ll see what I can do. She’ll want to thoroughly vet the guys first.”
“Vetting is appreciated,” Frank agrees, hedging for a beat. “But bottom line—and I mean no disrespect—I’m hoping Celeste connects with someone who takes her far away from my world and yours. I had the utmost respect for Tom. Hewas my dearest friend. I trusted his judgment more than anyone’s, but this isn’t what I want for my little girl.”
Fuck, that pisses me off.
“Understood,” Wells says, eyebrows compressing in rumination. “It’s certainly not for everyone. We’ll do our best to steer her toward a different path and keep her safe until she takes it.”
What the hell?
“Thanks, Wells. Contact me if she needs anything or something new develops.”
“Will do, Frank.” Wells ends the call, silent within his own thoughts as Mozart croons the background playlist to my seething.
Frank may have been Tom’s best friend, but that is not indicative of the way Frank conducts business or the clarity in which he views the ins and outs of this life. While Tom was privy to corruption and nefarious dealings, he did whatever he could to conduct himself with integrity. No one in this life is clean, but Tom was among the best. That didn’t stop him from championing friends who were knee deep in dirt, including us. Like the lost-cause neurology cases he took, identifying a new approach, he saw the best in even the most depraved—a quality he passed on to his daughter.
He also knew there was no one better than us to protect Ivy. Frank can piss off.
“What the fuck did you agree to?” I snipe.
That snaps Wells out of his thoughts with a quirked brow. He’d ordinarily go all Chief on me and put me in my place, but he must sense how combustible I am because he tempers himself. “Ivy will never abandon Celeste, but I can’t fault the guy for wanting his daughter out of the line of fire.”
I scoff, shocked that he’s not as outraged as I am. “A line he’s put her in, not us. He’s the one fucking up enough to garner the wrath of the Skulls.”
His eyes squint in consideration, but he shakes it off. “Frank didn’t deny that. What’s going on? Why are you so pissed? You can’t stand Celeste. This should be your best-case scenario.”
“It’s not about whether I can stand Celeste. Fuck, Chief, give me some goddamn credit on how we conduct our business. We don’t let personal feelings, one way or another, interfere.”
He unwraps a raspberry Tootsie Pop and plops it into his mouth, pensive while he mulls over my point. “What’s it about then?”
“It’s about the absolute disrespect he showed for Ivy. There is no better friend. Celeste is lucky. Anyone worth their damn salt would recognize that,” I justify, snatching my Zippo to snick it open and closed, losing myself in the billowing flame. I hardly ever smoke now, but I can’t forgo the lighter. “And it’s not like she’s unprotected here. How can you not be offended by that shit?”
“Goddammit.” He swings his lollipop through the air, like he’s slicing his Mozart tranquility to pieces. “What’s up your ass this morning, Graves? He wasn’t against Ivy, but the life she chose is in fact dangerous. We can barely let her leave the house. We bought a wing of the maternity hospital for safety precautions, for Christ’s sake. Need I go on? It makes sense he wouldn’t want Celeste to fall into a life here, so we’ll do as he asked.”
Irritation flares in my veins, right along with the snick, flick, flame mesmerizing my vision. “You’re going fucking soft, Chief. Those are prime examples of the lengths we go to so we can protect those under our care. Frank’s a dick for not knowing that.”
He stays quiet, sucking on his candy and staring at my disappearing and reappearing light. “I’m not offended because, in spite of the valid points you’re making, I can’t help but wonder if, someday, I’ll be saying the same about my little girl.”
My head snaps up. “It’s a girl? You’re—we’re—having a girl?”
“Jesus Christ.” He laughs—big, blustery, and full of joy. Ivy wanted us all to be surprised. I doubt she knows because she’d surely blurt it out if she did. And the nursery is neutral. She’d have a closet full of dresses. “Yes,” he confirms. “It’s a girl, but keep your goddamn mouth shut. During the ultrasound to reveal the gender, Ivy said she’d been having more feminine escapes—dandelion dreams and butterfly kisses, which was almost confirmation enough for me, but I needed to be sure. So, I checked the chart.”
We all enjoy Ivy’s quirky thoughts and instincts, but Wells decodes them best.
“You are so fucked, Chief.” I rub my forehead with a cynical chuckle, imagining the blaze he’s about to encounter. “When she finds out everything you’ve been hid—”
“She won’t,” he insists. “This stays between us.”
“Can’t believe you slipped,” I taunt.
He scans me, popping that damn sucker out to speak again. “I didn’t slip. I wanted you to know, Liam.”
And there it is again, his selfless leadership. I’m sure he wanted to share this good news, but he also knows being the one he chose to share it with first means a lot to me. It certainly pulled me out of my spiral.
I choke down the sentiment, not wanting this to turn into a moment when Gage would rightfully label me a pussy. “Thanks, Chief. For telling me. I was hoping for a girl.”
“Me too,” he confesses. “But that’s why Frank’s request isn’t offensive. It’s a sacrifice. He’s trying to save his little girl, just like Tom saved Ivy. Different methods but the same heart. Willing to keep his distance for her protection. The right thing—the only thing—to do is to support that.”
“Right.” I nod, turning my attention back to my flickering Zippo, still angry with no idea why. It might have something to do with the revelation that there is more to that brown-eyed vixen who incites me.
Snick. Flick. Flame.
“Good.” He lets out a relieved breath, but I can feel his wary eyes on me. That doesn’t prevent him from barking orders. “Assist Ty and Ivy in vetting the political douchebags and help Celeste fall in love—or at least find someone she’s willing to hitch herself to. Then, everyone will be happy. You’ll only have to see her on occasion. Frank will breathe easier. And my wife will know her friend is safe and thriving. Done.”
“Sounds like a fucking fairy tale,” I deadpan, standing to leave this godforsaken meeting behind.
Before I reach the door, Wells chimes, “Don’t go stockpiling girlie shit or hinting to Ty and Gage.”
“I won’t. Promise. I’ve got you, Wells.”
“You always do. And I’ve always got you. We’re in it together, Liam.”
That’s remarkably similar to what I said to him when I encouraged him to pursue Ivy. I’m not sure why that thought enters my mind.
It’s been three days since Celeste arrived, and I’ve done my best to steer clear and simply observe. Ivy took a few days off work, so they’ve spent every waking moment together. They’re downright giddy and stupid in a cute girlie way. But as soon as Celeste shows up for a meal with the rest of us, her well-cultivated uppity bullshit is reinstated. I want to see the girl who’s eager to get her hands dirty in the Carver burial grounds. Or even the one who’s so lost in reminiscing with her best friend that she forgets herself and snorts through a story.
Frank’s a fool. Ivy is good for his daughter. Celeste is real with her. Their time together will lessen tomorrow though. Ivy needs to tie up loose ends before this baby arrives. Ty and the rest of us will be able to cover for her, but she strongly dislikes being out of the loop. Her need to work has Celeste making other plans.
No dates yet even though she’s been called. Her only interest seems to be in an equestrian school—she’s contacted them twice.
Last July, when I found the hit on her father, I installed a cloning app on her phone. It allows me to view all her communication.
For safety purposes.
Natasha, Ivy’s mom, arrived earlier today. She’s a frequent houseguest that we all adore because she treats us like her boys. Wells chuckles every time she refers to him as a kid. He’s thirty-two but probably feels like he’s far older since we’ve lived a couple of lives already, and he’s been in charge in both.
I feel years older than twenty-nine, but it’s a matter of perspective. To Natasha, we’re young. Since I’ve never had anyone play mom, other than those who saw me as part nuisance and part government paycheck—bravo to the foster system—I eat it up.
It’s after ten at night. Ivy and Celeste are upstairs, settling down, so Natasha called the four of us boys to a meeting in the kitchen. She passed out cookies to us at the breakfast bar before moving to address us from the prepping island, which has Wells biting back a smile and Gage in his glory. As the smartest one in the group, I snagged a beer.
The expansive kitchen is stunning, if I do say so myself—gothic-chic vibes, two huge islands, matte blacks and cherry wood, top-of-the-line stainless steel appliances. It’s the first renovation I completed with Ivy. A monument to wading through those hard days of her grief and PTSD.
“We need to discuss Ivanna’s security detail,” Natasha says, diving in.
“What’s to discuss?” Wells asks. He only clashes with Ivy’s mom when he thinks Natasha is usurping his authority. Always in Chief mode.
“Where are they?” she retorts with a well-rehearsed fake smile that makes Ty laugh beside me.
“You’re looking at them,” Wells volleys.
This should be fun. I swig my Modelo with a mile-wide grin. I live for this shit.
Natasha closes her eyes and drinks in a slow, deliberate breath. I bet she’s counting. “It’s not enough. With the baby coming now, this can’t be your long-term plan. My daughter and grandchild need adequate protection.”
“My wife and child have the best protection available.” He’s tamping down his anger, but when his possessiveness emerges, fireworks are sure to follow.
I elbow Ty, who puffs an under-his-breath chuckle, while Gage sets his cookie down, reaches around Ty, and punches my bicep.
“Ow. Motherfucker.”
All heads flick toward me in admonishment, so Gage not-so-quietly mutters, “Dipshit,” as if the volume were the only issue here.
“Language. Sorry, Natasha.” I lob a hitchhiker’s thumb toward the Big Guy. “Gage hit me.”
Fuck.I sound like I’m ten.
“It’s fine.” She flaps a forget-about-it hand. “I’ve heard it all. From you boys, I might add. Keep your hands to yourself though, Gage.” She sighs hushed frustration as we all side-eye Gage. “Can we stay on track, please?”
“Absolutely,” Wells asserts with a chastising glare on the three of us.
Poor Ty, guilty by association.
Wells moves to stand opposite Natasha at the prepping island. “We transport her in armored cars, only allow her to enter buildings that have been swept, and vet anyone who will be anywhere near her. The property is a fortress. Locked down. Guarded. Video surveillance that we constantly monitor. I assure you, I’m handling it.”
Ivy also has a tracking chip behind her ear. We all do, but we don’t share that with anyone. Not even Natasha.
“And who will accompany your wife and your child to activities in the years to come?” she counters.
He ambles to the liquor cabinet, plucking his bottle of Macallan 18 and pouring three fingers’ worth before moseying to the ice dispenser. Stalling is a tactic Wells uses. It calms his temper and rattles his opponent.
“Two of us, like always. Security without a personal stake can be bought by the enemy. I won’t risk it,” he insists.
Natasha flips her gaze to the three of us watching the show. “Is that how you see your future? Guarding another man’s wife and child?”
I take that one while Wells makes much-needed cocktails for Ty and Gage. “We don’t see it like that. We all love Ivy. She’s our family.”
Her face softens with a mixture of awe and sadness. “I have no doubt you all love my daughter and will strive to always keep her safe. You’ve proven that. But juggling work, the baby, and eventually your own wives and families will prove to be too much sooner than you realize. You need to hire a more personal security staff now, so they can get invested.”
“We’re not worried,” Gage rasps. “There’s no scenario where Ivy is a burden. Your daughter has countless hits on her every damn day. She’s not leaving this house without us. Ever.”
That response wins a proud smile from Wells, who attempts to hide it with a swill of his scotch.
“I’m moved by your devotion,” Natasha says, smoothing her chin-length blonde hair. Her blue eyes seem heavy. After losing Tom, her whole heart resides in this house. “Truly. But you can’t honestly believe your future wives will appreciate you being at the beck and call of your friend’s family.”
“With all due respect, Natasha, Ivy is far more than that.” Ty’s voice is thick with emotion. The idea of leaving Ivy unprotected probably lands like an accusation on him. “There’s nothing we wouldn’t do for her.”
She shakes her head, lips pursed. “I know you believe that, Tytan. And I’m telling you, that’s a mistake because a significant other won’t take too kindly to that assessment, and what happens then? You have to bow out, as you should, out of respect for your spouse, and Ivanna is suddenly left unguarded?”
Oh fuck. She thinks we’ll eventually flake on Ivy. That stings.
“Anyone we bring into this family will need to honor the relationship we all share and fit within it,” Ty says, chugging the last sips of his Kraken Black Label Rum and Coke. “And they’ll need to be guarded in a similar fashion because this world we’re a part of is treacherous. It will always be a group effort.”
The first part of Ty’s statement holds merit simply due to the loyalty test any prospective partner will be forced to endure, proving their allegiance to us, our associates—or in our case, this unconventional family unit—and any business information. KORT won’t budge on that. It’s the only way to become an untouchable.
“Exactly. Ivy won’t ever be less of a priority to us,” Gage adds. “Anyone the guys bring in will simply become an addition.” The Big Guy can’t fathom marrying anyone, which is why that statement is limited to Ty and me.
I point my bottleneck at Ty and Gage, respect for the direction they’re taking this argument. “That’s a good way to put it. We’ll all be living under one roof, one big, happy family, like a multigenerational home.” I smirk, knowing Natasha’s calling bullshit. It isn’t, but I see the humorous side all the same. “With all of us around the same age and not blood-related.”
Ty cackles. “Yeah, like that.”
“Sounds like a damn hippie commune,” Gage growls, finishing off his bourbon. He’s over this debate.
Natasha laughs, freeing the rest of us to do so with her. “That doesn’t lessen my concern the way you think it should,” she says. “You’ll all need extra guards then. It’s not only Ivanna I’m worried about. You’re all important to me. My family now too. And you were all important to Tom. Do you really think he’d tell you not to hire more guards?”
“He’d tell you how fallible they are,” Wells answers, but she’s gotten to him, obvious from the worry divot in his brow line. The mention of Tom always does it. “Tom probably never told you, but his security guys didn’t detect us for two weeks when we were watching Ivanna. If we’d been one of the other teams searching for her, she’d be dead.” Wells sighs with a shiver, and my stomach recoils at the thought. “But he’d want as much security as possible while still letting Ivy have the most normal life.”
“That ship has sailed, Chief,” I interject. “Nothing about this life is normal.”
This conversation is driving home the truth of Frank’s concerns for Celeste. Danger will always follow us. But then again, who will protect her from it when she’s posing for frivolous photo ops with people wholly unaware of the gravity of her connections? Has he not considered that? How she’ll be left wide open. Unprotected.
Wells combs a hand through his hair, his dress shirt suddenly rumpled from wear and stress. “All the more reason to vet some guys for closer work.”
Natasha steps over to him, patting his cheek in thanks with maternal pride. Relieved.
But all I feel is panic sinking into my wrenched gut. And Ivy isn’t the girl I’m worried about.