Carving Graves: A Dark Mafia Romance (The KORT Series Book 2)

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

CELESTE

Irip my arms away from my father and Rex, itching to bolt, but my rage won’t permit me. “Seriously? You’ve got no fucking answer as to why you’re both leaving me on the steps of this horror house?”

An ear-splitting creak slices through the silent night.

“There she is,” a familiar voice rasps through a crack in the cathedral door—my favorite voice. My golden god. “I’ve got her from here, guys. Thanks.”

Liam snakes an arm around my waist and drags me inside, shoving me against the wall. His long suit-clad limbs crowd me, his warm ski-lodge scent warring with the aroma of the sacred incense attempting to slither between us.

Frankincense and myrrh. Funerals and confessionals. I gave quite a few blow jobs in the confessional—my form of rebellion after Ben’s death. That was the place to unveil our indiscretions, so it seemed efficient to let them transpire there.

I always lit a candle afterward. Based on the current house of worship scorning me, it appears that wasn’t adequate atonement.

“Liam,” I whimper, trembling in his embrace. “You’re here. No matter how dark. It was a fucking blackout.”

“That’s right, Ace. The goddamn sunrise.”

“I’ve been twisted in knots.” My voice shakes as tears well in my eyes. “So much has happened. Are you okay?”

“Shh, baby girl,” he coos in my ear as his thumb grazes my cheekbone. “Jesus, I missed you. I’m okay now that you’re here, but we only have about five minutes. I need you to listen.”

“What happens in five minutes?” I squeak, still haunted by the saints’ faint chiding.

“You meet with KORT.” He smooths my hair back from my face, calming me as my breath lodges in my chest—a big fat boulder of terror. “I’ve got you, but I need to tell you some things.”

I swallow. “Okay.”

“There you go.” His tenor is so smooth and calming, coiling around me to stave off the brewing panic. “In case we get cut off, you’re to go along with whatever I say in that room—or whatever details they convey to you regarding us. Understand?”

“Understood.”

“Good girl,” he praises, kissing my forehead. “Christ, I wish I could fuck you right now. You’re so damn sexy, and there’s great acoustics here. I bet your whimpers would sound glorious, bouncing off the—”

“Liam, please focus.”

“Right. Later.” He shakes his head, dislodging whatever erotic fantasy was consuming him. “I want to explain the rationale for why I called your father that day in the sauna and told him you were mine.”

Shocked by this detour, I merely offer a hum to assure him I’m listening.

“I couldn’t claim you officially for the reasons we discussed at the family meeting later that day. We didn’t want to risk revealing Ivy’s and Wells’s identities, especially with Felicity so young. So, I needed your dad to hate me enough to complain to Jared Austen—the leader of The Order—so the rest of KORT would hear we were together and know there was dissension between your father and me.”

“Why would you want them to think that?” I ask, more confused than I was the day it happened—when I thought it was just another display of his unhinged alpha monster rearing his enraged head. The lower one.

“Since I couldn’t officially name you as an untouchable, it alerted KORT that you were someone who would be under steep protection. We aren’t permitted to have casual relationships—it’s part of the bylaws. Too many risks. It’s either nameless one-night stands or someone serious who needs to be submitted to KORT. So, once your father complained, they knew I’d be claiming you.”

My mouth dries, crackling as I open to request more, but he’s way ahead of me.

He dusts his thumb over my bottom lip, his gaze focused there with a wanton ogle. “And, like I’d hoped, it influenced your loyalty test.”

“My loyalty test?”

“Yes. That’s what you just went through with the FBI, Ace.”

Loyalty test.

I remember that from the chaos that Ivy endured. My skin heats as I try to slink away, but Liam tightens his grip on my hip. So, I latch my gaze to his.

“Explain to me why Ivy’s loyalty test was you kissing her and mine was you abandoning me while my parents were interrogated by the FBI.”

“Your parents weren’t actually interrogated. Once they were hauled in, they were apprised of it being your test.” He sighs and scrubs his hand over the side of his face, his golden stubble flattening and springing back up with the movement. “Ivy’s loyalty test was built into her trial. The test with me was just to throw another element at her concerning the marriage. She and Wells were so unwavering to each other through the trials that O’Reilly didn’t even bother to test Wells further.”

His hazels roam all over my face as his Adam’s apple bobs. “But you are coming in as a … significant other, and your allegiance lay between two families. They had to verify that you’d choose KORT, no matter what. After your dad reported to Jared Austen that I had essentially stolen you from your family, it was enough for KORT to play with, creating an impossible situation to see if you’d cave. It was the only way I could think of to prevent you from dealing with a more dangerous scenario. I didn’t even tell Wells so that his reaction would be authentic with your father and KORT.”

“So … Agent Colehorn?”

“In on it.” He smirks. “He’s a dirty motherfucker. KORT uses him a lot. I didn’t get the specifics on how you did, but Wells said Cole was impressed.”

I tug my gloves off, stash them in my coat, and weave my fingers into his dirty-blond locks, needing to feel him more. “I used information from the book, pieced together with something I heard.”

“Brilliant, baby. I can’t wait to hear about it, but Gage or Ty will be out here any second, and this is more important.”

He cradles my jaw and captures my mouth, his tongue sweeping feathery strokes at the seam of my lips, beckoning them to open for him. It’s an all-consuming love song, one with a melody of promises. And I return every note tenfold.

When he breaks from me, I bite my lip, forever grateful to be back where I belong.

On the side of a barn. A restaurant full of people. A sauna. A dressing room. Covered in blood or in this creepy church. It doesn’t matter.

As long as Liam Graves is enwrapping me in the warmth of the rising sun, I’m home.

But even cocooned in his arms, one concern still lingers—one I can’t overlook. “You have the book, don’t you? What about my father?”

“We haven’t turned it over. We’re looking into some pages that were”—he cocks an eyebrow at me—“torn out, and we’re verifying the rest of the claims. It falls to the O’Reilly empire to investigate because they handle government officials and to the Cabrinis to consult with their data mining resources. Both chairs are already apprised of the contents.”

A relieved sigh billows out of me. He took it, but they handled it with my concerns in mind. Wells and Ivy both know. And they protected my family. For me.

“Oh,” I chirp, recalling the one humorous incident away from him now that I feel a bit lighter. “Richard Long?”

He belts out a ring of laughter that echoes off the rafters. “How the hell—”

“Colehorn,” I explain.

“He told you that?” He’s still chuckling, his forehead dropping to the wall beside my head. “Fucking asshole.”

A smile bursts across my cheeks—his laughter is the most invigorating sound in existence. “He gave me a sheet with all your aliases, and that was on it.”

He lifts off the wall, playing with my hair as he launches his story. “A few years back, I was bragging about how invincible the guys and I were because we get shit done so much faster than them. No one can touch us. Well, Cole insisted that he could catch us doing anything—that we only get away with shit because it’s mutually beneficial, so no one bothers us. I heard a challenge, so, without warning, I wreaked havoc on him. Messing with his finances. All his sordid side deals. I—or Dick Long, rather—invested his funds in a nasty-ass strip club and sent him the deed as a Christmas gift, made him a top ambassador of this direct-selling sex toys company, complete with an explicit website. I actually turned a profit for him. Spent over a year having a hell of a good time as Dick Long until I revealed the truth.”

I bury my face in my hands to compose myself. “I had to smother a cackle when I read the name. I knew there’d be a good story to accompany it. He played the coldhearted asshole role well, but the subtlest hint of amusement twitched on his lips when I laughed at the name.”

“That was for me. He is an asshole, but he didn’t need to put that name on there. It was an act of mercy—giving you hope that there were holes in his evidence. Don’t mention that to KORT. Balzano can be a real dick.”

The mention of KORT jolts me back to the daunting matter at hand. “Speaking of that, I don’t understand what I’m doing here. What do they want?”

Before Liam can answer, Ty and Gage come bounding around the corner. Ty sprints full speed ahead for me, scooping me off the ground with a spin.

“Lettie,” he huffs, holding me against his chest, hand cupping the back of my head. “Fuck, I’ve hated every minute of the last two weeks.”

“Me too, Ty,” I say, loving this unexpected reunion. “You have no idea.”

“Mind your hands, Reynolds,” Liam barks from behind us.

“My hand is on her fucking hair,” Ty snipes with a disbelieving chuckle.

“Yeah,” Liam bites back, “that’s my fucking honeysuckle hair. Keep your goddamn mitts off it.”

They certainly know how to ease anxiety.

I can’t help laughing, which only worsens as Gage grinds out, “Fucking pussies,” and sidles up next to Ty, kissing my honeysuckle hair. “Missed you, angel.”

“Missed you too, Big Guy. You left without saying goodbye.” I tried not to let that bother me. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t something to fret about. But last night, when a deluge of tears flooded my pillow, I wondered why he’d walked out my door without a word.

“I just couldn’t.” It’s all he offers, but somehow, it means more than an extensive explanation would, especially since his tone is thick with emotion, matching his heavy amber eyes.

Liam grunts and peels me away, like I’m a ragdoll. “You two can hug her later. I’ve missed her too much to let go for another second. And she’s walking into that chapel on my arm.”

I’ve seen them behave this way with Ivy, but it’s less my comfort zone—them tossing me around and fawning over me. Although I can’t deny the warmth ballooning inside my lungs that these men I love so much care enough for me to argue about who gets to hug me.

I burrow my face into Liam’s neck, exhaling all the devastation I’ve harbored these past weeks even though it’s clearly not over. Ivy tried to explain this to me last summer, and I couldn’t understand it. I’d never seen anyone love as hard as the five of them. But as remarkable as it was to witness, there’s a whole new level of astonishment, experiencing it. I can survive anything with them by my side.

“I love you,” I whisper against Liam’s skin.

He pecks my temple and sets me on the floor in front of the wooden double doors. “That’s good, baby. Hold on to that and the assurance that I love you more than anything in this life.”

His declaration sounds more like a cautionary warning than a sweet nothing, but he’s threading our fingers and towing me inside the sanctuary before I can ponder it.

“Here we go,” Ty whispers, and it assaults my eardrums like a blaring siren because everything else is still and silent.

Our shoes clack on the floor with an unnerving creak volleyed back, like the weathered wooden planks are rebuking us for entering. Suddenly, my fear of enraged saints returns. I’m not often spooked. But it’s as though I can feel their fingers reaching for me.

Death is in the air. I can sense it.

The three men escorting me are solemn and serious. Our mingled breaths blend to become a sedate liturgical hymn, stealing the pipe organ’s thunder.

There’s a half-moon table with Ivy, Wells, and three other men—KORT—and guards behind them.

Ivy glances up beneath her lashes, extending a brief dip of her chin in solidarity.

If you’re going nowhere, I’m coming with you.

Where the hell have we gone, bestie?

Her lips tip up, reading me perfectly—her uncanny gift. And as Wells ping-pongs his gaze between us, he appears to be privy to our silent conversation as well, offering me a covert wink. All eyes are on me, so I keep my face vacant, but I don’t need to return Wells’s gesture for him to know what he means to me.

Wells and I seem to understand each other. That night with him in the library a few months back has held increasing meaning for me as time has passed. He approached me on behalf of his wife, but he understood my struggles and sought to mend them because of who he is. Even when Liam and I were at odds, he championed me. And I will forever treasure the apology he issued after they rescued Ivy and me from the Skulls. He’s every bit deserving of the leadership role the other four afford him.

Liam ushers me to a chair that faces the table, removes my coat, and gently nudges me to sit. He occupies the seat beside me while Ty retreats to stand behind Ivy, and Gage assumes his post behind me.

“Good evening, Celeste,” a pleasant-looking gentleman in his mid-sixties says in greeting. “I’m Jared Austen, leader of The Order. Your father is a valued associate of our organization. Welcome to KORT. As a claimed member of one of our top-tier leaders, Liam Graves, who is second-in-command for the Cabrini camp, your loyalty needed to be tested. Do you understand what that means?”

With a confidence that is utterly fabricated, I respond, “I believe so, Mr. Austen. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Pleasure is a stretch, but this is how you play the society game. It doesn’t matter if it’s a tea party or an underground cabal gathering, etiquette is always appreciated.

Never let them see.

He smiles—the kind of sweet smile my grandfather would flash if he heard me respond competently at a political function. “I assume Liam briefed you on your way in that the FBI incident was simply your loyalty test. Your parents are in no danger at present.”

“Yes, sir. He did. Thank you.”

“Due to the friction between Liam and your father,” he continues, “we engineered a test that would endanger them both to evaluate your approach. I have to say, I was concerned on your behalf.”

He pauses there, and my mother’s cryptic counsel about them burying me if I wavered crops up into my brain, wrenching my insides.

Vomit rushes up my esophagus, all the way into my mouth, but I choke it back. It reminds me of the warehouse full of dead bodies and being covered with the flesh and bone of that creep.

A reeking corpse.

Would KORT have killed me if I’d crumbled and given the FBI something? If I’d have chosen either side? Of course they would have. And even though I never would have squealed, it still shackles me like a straitjacket. They’ll always be hovering.

Liam brushes his thumb back and forth on the underside of my palm, gathering the beads of sweat as Jared expounds his concern.

“It was a tough spot for anyone to be in—torn between two beloved relationships—but you succeeded in securing your parents’ release, as well as encouraging them to drop the investigation against the Cabrini crew. And most importantly, you pulled it off without divulging anything regarding KORT or the organizations under us.”

“I’d argue it was sheer luck.” A grumpy old guy swings his hand through the air and turns his attention to Jared. “The girl reads through a book her brother left her days before she happens to be interrogated by one of the investigators mentioned in it, and we’re impressed. Who couldn’t do that? We have no way of knowing if she would’ve folded without a handy book of trumped-up corruption.”

Trumped-up is an odd assessment to assign the corruption detailed in that book, seeing as how the mere mention of it startled Colehorn even though he knew I wouldn’t use it since the entire investigation was fraudulent. And still, it shook him.

Ivy’s eyes flutter in annoyance. The grump must be Balzano. She’s used his name as a slur quite a few times, and Liam mentioned he was a dick.

Interesting.

I didn’t soak in much about what was written regarding the Noires before I caught sight of my father’s name, but I’d bet my life that the name Balzano was peppered throughout the detailing. Sounds like he suspects he’s in that book and doesn’t want anyone to believe it’s factual.

“Colehorn didn’t attest to what she held over him. He’s as slimy and underhanded as they come. For all we know, he was—”

“We actually know conclusively, Johnny,” Wells says smoothly, jaw tight and eyes narrowed in warning at Balzano. “We know because Celeste shrewdly dropped Vargas’s name, and then sent that text to our contact, which was immediately forwarded to all of you. That was hours before Colehorn reported that she’d out maneuvered him, hours before Frank and Ava’s release.”

Balzano points a chastising finger. “You don’t get to weigh in here, Wells. They’re in your damn camp.”

“Okay,” Ivy sings out in her sugary, mocking tone. “I’ll object to your argument due to the text she sent hours before she blackmailed the agent.”

“And you’re her best friend, Ivy,” Balzano volleys with a smack to the table. “Not to mention that Graves serves the O’Reilly camp also.”

“Enough, Johnny,” the final guy at the table demands, obviously rankled. “Fucking hell. Can we not turn this into an ugly ordeal?” The clean-shaven guy, who appears closer to Wells’s age than the other two men, sets a softer gaze on me. “The text was brilliant, Celeste. I’m Payne Logan, and I was quite impressed. Those FBI guys do work for us, but they have yet to discover Ivanna’s identity, as we’ve opted to keep her as our secret for as long as possible. You did a marvelous thing. While trying to free your parents, throw them off the Cabrini scent, and keep yourself from being implicated, you noticed the absence of Ivanna in the evidence and prioritized her safety. There’s nothing left to be said regarding your test.”

“Agreed,” Jared chimes. “Let’s move on. Now, in order to be named as an untouchable, marriage must transpire within a month. We are already about two weeks out from the initial claiming, but we’ve been informed that vows will be exchanged within the proper time frame. Is that correct?”

Liam squeezes my hand so hard that it deflates my lungs. I gulp at the air for assistance. He told me to go along with whatever they said, but I didn’t see this coming.

My lack of oxygen isn’t due to being blindsided though. It’s solely a result of him cracking my petite phalange bones.

As far as marriage, I’m more than amenable. He’s been telling me that he’s my forever for quite a while. We’ve discussed logistics. And let’s face it; I’m in a no-turning-back situation—not that I’d ever dream of any future without him. I’m more than ready to be an official Graves and family member to the Wells, Kingston, Cabrini, O’Reilly, Reynolds, and Porter crew.

That’s a ridiculous mouthful. We should name the house.

My cheeks tickle, and my lips tingle as the joy spreads all the way to my eyes. “Yes. That’s correct.”

Liam exhales the most relieved exultation I’ve ever heard. Did he really think I’d fight him on this?

Always keep them guessing.

“Wonderful,” Jared says in approval. “We’ll expect the certificate to be emailed over at the conclusion. Other than that, I suppose I simply need to mention that we take marriage vows quite seriously. Divorce is not an option. Adultery is not tolerated under any circumstance. Should there ever be an authentic investigation, spousal privilege is to be invoked immediately. You are not permitted to share KORT intelligence, assignments, testing details or the like with anyone outside this room. And finally”—he beams that grandfatherly pride at me again—“congratulations. You are a member of the most powerful kingdom of our time. KORT receives you with open arms.”

“Yes,” Balzano roars, arms flying wide. “Such open arms that your fiancé filleted you a wedding present.”

Liam squeezes my hand again, more painfully than before, so I brace myself for what’s coming.

“Filleted?” I ask him out of the corner of my mouth.

“When someone rips your heart out, Ace …” Liam trails off.

Before I can probe for what the hell that means, Balzano croons, “Make that two.”

My head is spinning. The spirits are alive and well, whipping around the room with a hushed death chant. I smelled it when we entered.

Ivy casts an order, her soft blue eyes planted on mine, encouraging me to employ my poise and apathy. “Bring them in.”

Ty and a couple of the other men’s guards—or maybe seconds-in-command—open the double doors, and two body bags are rolled inside on hospital stretchers.

Liam rises, tugs me to meet him, and leans close to my ear. “I promise this was the best I could do. It’s time for that gorgeous poker face, Ace. Be my strong girl. And breathe through your mouth. Almost over.”

“Welcome to KORT,” Balzano bellows while Liam escorts me toward the black body bags, unzipped at the head.

As I peer down, I see my childhood flash before my eyes.

Summer nights with blinding halos.

Dusty roads clouding drunken cheers.

Race cars and lost virginity.

Easton and Pruitt Lancaster.

The room jostles around me, bile burns my throat, and I stifle a retch.

Liam tucks me under his arm, speaking low against my hair. “I swear to Christ, I bought you a fucking ring, but this is supposed to be an engagement gift. When KORT found out I was planning to kill these motherfuckers, they thought this was fitting, due to their crimes. Go with it. Only other option they offered—the one they vehemently preferred—was that you participate. I worked around that demand by fucking ignoring it, slaughtering them quickly, and framing the other assholes involved for it. But KORT feels unified transgressions bind us, so …”

If one falls, we all fall.

“Understood,” I mutter, choking on the rancid stench.

With my confirmation, he presents two boxes to me, tied neatly with white lace bows—the edges stained in crimson.

“Don’t touch,” he orders as he yanks on the end of one of the ribbons and the cardboard flaps unfold at a snail’s pace.

It’s a ceremonial unveiling.

And the room morphs into a frightening funhouse around me—bits and pieces of this eerie monument to past devotion, dancing with flashes of an exploding Dodge Viper and an indestructible ship that succumbed to an unforgiving sea.

All of it swirls and spins until the box pops open and a blackened muscle greets me.

“The hearts,” Liam explains.

Ahh … now, the when someone rips your heart out comment from him makes sense. Easton used me, played me, and let my brother die. And Pruitt orchestrated that murderer’s return at the expense of my capture and, most likely, my eventual death.

They shattered the most vulnerable piece of me, so Liam stole it from them.

It’s a new slant on romantic overtures. But fitting.

My own heart thrashes everywhere—temples, throat, ribs, toes—beating with a zealous vigor.

In part due to the grotesque nature of the repulsive organ staring back at me, urging me to pass out, to leave this wake behind.

But also because, surprisingly, I respect this for what it is—a gift. After Ben died, I barely noticed this thumping rhythm inside my chest. It was weak and aching and primarily a source of torment—the very reason I sought out heart palpitations through thrilling expeditions.

So, the Lancasters’ hearts, cut out and shoved in a box, seem apropos.

Even more so when I consider Ben—the future he lost, the moments ripped from us, the fire that has consumed my family. For him, I can swallow any distaste and celebrate the modicum of restitution this provides.

Maybe, in some twisted way, I was made for this.

To play their game.

Ignoring my lightheadedness, I spin on my heel to face the half-moon of knights. “On behalf of my family, I thank you for slaying the bastards responsible for my brother’s death and the peril I recently faced. I am profoundly grateful. I’ll present these hearts to my parents. I know they’d want me to extend my appreciation.”

The room dissolves into exuberant rejoicing. It seems I passed.

Ivy and the guys all embrace me but also do their best to mingle so we can conclude our obligatory meeting and go home. I flatter and hobnob with the other KORT chairs, my refined social decorum in overdrive, as though being presented an engagement gift of two men’s organs is entirely normal. And as they all scatter into conversation and Liam anchors me to his side, an overwhelming haze descends upon me.

It isn’t the horrid atrocity I just witnessed or Ben’s death or my parents’ approval that has my mind rollicking through a frenzy of thoughts. None of the usual stressors are plaguing me, and neither is this drafty sanctuary with its emblems of carnage.

It’s my warfare with choices—how, since I was a preteen, I viewed them as a suffocating restraint. Soon, that constraint warped into a noose, framed by impeding death. Even the examples I held on to from my Catholic CCD classes screamed of it.

Eat the forbidden fruit or ignore the slithering snake licking at your neck.

Never look back or turn to salt.

Obey the king’s absurd edict or be devoured by lions for your convictions.

Whether regarding temptation, an inability to let go, or an unwillingness to cave to someone’s narcissistic control, all of it resulted in a measure of death.

Death of self or spirit or dreams.

Hope.

I held that long before Ben died. At least a decade before my morbid fascination with the SS Thistlegorm. It was always there, etched into my bones. Perhaps that’s why it was so easy for me to relinquish control over my future and extinguish any flickering desires. On some level, I always expected to bury a part of myself.

But oddly, standing in a sanctuary transformed to glorify executions, I am utterly liberated.

My fingers glide over Liam’s jaw, his golden scruff prickling my palm with a delightful tingle. He splays his hand across my lower back, pressing me against him as his midnight-forest hazels—glimmering like sea glass tonight—teem with so much love that it cocoons me inside a contentment I’ve never known.

This is happiness. Peace. Acceptance. Belonging.

Family.

Fragility revered in the formidable.

“I choose you, Liam Graves. Today and every day. Heaven or Hell. It’s the easiest decision I’ve ever made. In fact, you aren’t even a choice. You’re just mine.” I glance away for the briefest of seconds to admire the four others who have helped to make me whole before returning to him. “And so are they.”

He sweeps my hair behind my shoulder, his fingertips perusing my ear and jaw. Neck and awakened pulse. “We had a plan.”

“A plan for what?” I ask, thrown by his response.

“To get you out.” He kisses my forehead, and I feel the heaviness he’s evidently been carrying wash over my skin. “I never doubted that you’d pass, but … you come first, Celeste. Not just for me. For all of us. You’ll always come first.”

“I know,” I promise. It’s the truth.

Even when I thought we were all facing the worst, I knew he’d come for me. He might be a lifer with KORT, but that doesn’t change how he’ll show up for me.

“Do you, baby girl?” Those dreamy eyes hitch to mine again. “Because you’re right. You had no choice. I was always yours. And you were always mine. Mine to fight, to chase, to protect, to love. Mine to see. But always mine. Ours.”

“Yes. I feel it.” Joyful tears brim in my eyes, swirling with the truth of that.

Liam always captivated my attention, even when it was my wrath or irritation. He ignited a flame that had been snuffed out, one I couldn’t ignore.

“I’ve spent my entire adult life broken and hiding,” I confess. “Trying so hard to carve out little snippets of life from exhilarating rushes, to chisel moments that would remind me to live, convince me to wake up the next day, so I didn’t choose to drown. But I was approaching it all wrong.”

He lifts my chin, knuckles catching the drippings of my dissipating grief before his hand laces into my hair, angling my head where he wants it. His lips nearly graze mine with the tease of a kiss. “Your last name is Carver—for about another week—so trying to carve things is probably in your blood.”

“It wasn’t the carving that was wrong; it was the sources I was choosing to sculpt. Nothing ever rekindled my flame for living.” I let my mouth brush his, my eyes capering all over his beautiful face.

Mine.

“I’ll rekindle your goddamn flame right here, Carver,” he says before impatiently seizing me for an all-consuming devouring that should have me blushing.

We’re in a chapel filled with a cohort of clandestine cabal leaders. But this is about as private as Liam takes it, and I’m proud to be the one he wants to flaunt.

So, I reciprocate with abandon until he slows to ask, “What should you have been carving, Ace?” between nips and pecks and decadent nibbles.

I could tell him that he’s my golden god, my sunrise, the spark that finally illuminated my painfully dark soul. That I could’ve searched the world over and never found an ember apart from him. But he sees all I am, understands what’s between my words, grasps the full scope of my heart, no matter what game I play. So, maybe someday I’ll share all that, but today, I keep it simple.

“I should have been Carving Graves.”