Chapter 37
INTERRUPTIONS & ALMOSTS
AURORA
It should be relief I feel when Seven turns onto their private road, and the gate swings closed behind us, but when the house comes into view, a sickening sense of dread floods my stomach instead.
I've decided to tell them. Céline is right. They won't fault me for having a monster for a father. Even if the idea of saying the words out loud—admitting the truth—makes me shudder.
Seven drives around the front of the house, and Ellie is already bouncing with energy in the back seat, making her happy sounds as her tail whips the seats. She barks when Seven parks the car outside the garage and Atticus exits, grinning when she fogs up the rear window with her excited barks.
I exit with a shiver at the chill in the mountain air and head to the trunk as Atticus lets Ellie out of the car and gives her a good pat-down, making her sit pretty and roll over before he gives her a few of those duck liver treats she loves from his pocket.
I shake my head as Seven gets out and pops the trunk, but when I go to reach for my bags, Atticus is there first, slipping his hand through the handle of my suitcase to lift it from the trunk.
"You okay?" he asks in a low tone.
He must see my confusion because he adds, "When you didn't reach out right away after your meeting with Ambrose, I thought—"
"I'm fine."
He takes the hint for once and then frowns, lifting my suitcase to give it a little shake. "It's pretty light."
"I still have clothes here, remember?"
"Does this mean I don't have to worry about having fifty pounds of dickfetti exploding in the house?"
I smirk. "Guess you'll find out."
"Fifty pounds of what?" Seven asks, lifting his attention from Ellie.
"Nothing," Atticus says, shooting me a smirk right back before looking to Seven. "How'd it go?"
"Like you said," Seven replies. "They followed us, but only about twenty miles. Just long enough for them to have Ambrose's people run the plates and see Chris is the owner."
"And the handoff?"
"Jack has her phone and is en route to Huntsville now. He said he has your schedule and he'll follow it. We're good."
Atticus looks doubtful, but nods. "Ambrose could still decide to send his people to Huntsville to keep an eye on things there. We'll need to be ready to move her back to campus just in case."
"Remember what we talked about?" Seven asks in a teasing tone. "It's not a problem until it's a problem. Relax."
Atticus grunts, and his honey eyes slide back to me. "Come on, let's get you inside. It's cold as fuck out here today."
Seven's eyes crinkle at me in confusion when I move to follow Atticus into the house, but I'm not going in because he told me to. It is cold as fuck.
"What?" I ask when he falls into step behind me, Ellie trotting alongside him.
He shakes his head. "Nothing."
My gaze falls to his jacket, which is now open to reveal a plaid shirt that's buttoned all the way to his throat. He tugs at the fabric and winces. "I should probably go change."
"Please do. You look like someone's deranged uncle on a hunting trip."
He pushes his palm to his chest. "Ouch, Ro. I'm telling Chris you said that."
"The day you meet my foster dad will be the day he dies of a heart attack."
"You hearing this, Atty? She's so mean."
Atticus grunts. "Stop pretending you don't love it."
He sets my suitcase down inside the house and drops to a knee, calling Ellie over to clean her paws, and fuck if she doesn't sit so still for him while he does it, too. I shake my head at the pair of them.
"Where's Elijah?" I ask as Seven jogs through the house to go and change.
"Shower," Atticus answers. "He should be out in a second."
My mouth waters when we walk through the kitchen, and I know that despite there being very little evidence of it, Atticus was definitely cooking something deadly good in here not long ago. What is that? It smells like bacon. And jalapenos and cheese and…
I swallow and clear my throat, watching Ellie race into the living room.
Atticus rushes to follow her as the sound of crackling hits my ears, and I realize why it's so gloriously warm in here.
My suspicion is confirmed when I enter the living room. There's a crackling fire in the hearth that Ellie is very carefully inspecting under the strict supervision of Atticus.
I rub my arms, sighing. There's something about a fire.
"Nice," Seven says, rushing back downstairs to warm his hands in front of it. He's wearing a crisp white T-shirt that I can faintly see his tattoos through, and a pair of dark jeans that suit him a million times better than cargos ever could.
"Thought you said it was too early in the year to get it going?" Seven accuses Atticus.
Atticus shrugs. "I made an exception."
A bit of nude and red catches my eye, and I realize there's a new painting hanging in the living room. "Oh, is that it?"
"Thought I heard you," Elijah says, coming down the hall with his dark hair still glistening from the shower, white dress shirt unbuttoned.
Even with all the anticipation still buzzing in my blood for what I have to tell them, I can't help returning Elijah's warm smile as he crosses the room and pulls me into his arms. He smells like soap and warmth, and that slightly nautical musk that is purely Elijah.
"Hey, Angel."
I sigh into his shoulder, and he squeezes me tighter.
"I saw the Modigliani," I say when he pulls away, but keeps an arm wrapped loosely around my waist.
His eyes spark. "Yeah? Come have a closer look."
He starts to pull me toward where they've hung it, but Atticus clears his throat pointedly. "We should debrief."
"She just got here," Seven argues. "Let her chill a sec."
My throat thickens, and I struggle to swallow so I can speak. "No, we should do it now. Get it over with."
Elijah frowns, but his arm falls from my back. "You sure, Angel?"
"Yeah, I'm sure."
My skin prickles as I take the armchair, and the others find seats facing me in the living room.
Atticus leans over his knees, steepling his fingers. I can't help noticing the purple marks on his knuckles. How a couple of them have small cuts that are halfway to healing.
"What happened to you?" I ask, unable to help myself. "I thought you didn't run into any trouble in France?"
He looks down at his knuckles as if he'd forgotten all about them. "Worried about me, Trouble?"
"No." I snort. "I'm sure you can handle yourself."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence."
I swallow. Guess there's nothing else I can say to delay the inevitable.
"How about you start at the beginning?" Atticus prompts. "And try to be thorough. Even little things you think weren't important might be useful."
"He had the restaurant closed for our lunch," I begin. "The driver he sent for me rushed me out when we got there. Said I shouldn't keep him waiting."
Atticus pushes a strand of dark gold hair that came loose back from his face and nods as if this was all expected.
Wait until he hears the rest…
I press my hands between my thighs and try to remember the details.
I tell them how he pre-ordered lunch so we wouldn't be disturbed, and how he had someone from his personal security team in the room with us, even though I don't think it's essential.
I try to skip over the small talk, but Atticus tells me he wants to hear it if I can recall everything that was said, so I do my best to rehash the entire inane conversation about the restaurant and my offer to show him how good Olive Garden's breadsticks were.
Seven snorts at that, letting out a deep chuckle that I know will soon vanish.
The knot between Atticus's brows deepens when I admit I did ask about how Ambrose's business trip in Nice went, even though he explicitly warned me against it.
I expect him to get angry, but he doesn't. He only lets out a small sigh and nods, like he expected this, too.
"Then he said he always has the last laugh."
"Not this time." Elijah's lethal words are an echo of the exact thought I had while sitting at that table with Ambrose.
"He did get something in Nice," Atticus corrects with a sigh.
"I've already told the guys, but you might as well know, too.
I found out he sold an original Vermeer from the Ashfords' collection to a private buyer the day before our Matisse heist. There's a chance he was never there to get that Modigliani at all. We were wrong."
I frown. But they'd been so sure.
Elijah massages his hand, expression dark. It must kill him every time Ambrose sells a piece of what his family spent their lives building.
"Anyway, go on," Atticus prompts. "What else?"
I explain everything Ambrose told me about my mother, and Atticus pays special attention to those details.
I can see his gears turning, trying to discern if anything I say fits into his theory that Diana De La Rosa didn't get kidnapped or vanish without explanation, but instead left of her own volition.
I go into detail about his offer to visit his estate in Spain—to see where I was born and learn more about my mother.
My hands start to ache from the pressure of my knees against my knuckles as I edge closer to the atomic bomb Ambrose dropped. I have to tell them.
I know I have to tell them.
But the words stick in my throat, and I'm hot all over. Itching beneath my clothes. Not sure how to start.
With the necklace that he recognized from the first time we met?
Maybe, I should…
My teeth clench, and I'm so close. I'm going to spit it out. Just say it—Ambrose is really my biological father—and then I can explain the rest. The necklace. The additional test. All of it.
My lips part, and I realize I've been quiet for too long when Seven asks, "Is that it?" so fucking casually that a fresh wave of heavy guilt crashes over me.
"I—"
In the kitchen, a timer goes off, blaring loudly down the hall to us.
"Perfect timing," Atticus says. "Maybe we can go over it one more time later this week? I have to make the gratin."
He's already getting up, walking toward the kitchen.
Wait. The word is on the tip of my tongue, but I'm not fast enough to tell him to stay, that I'm not finished yet, before he's gone.
"Atty will probably want to talk more about his offer to go to the Spanish estate. It could be a prime opportunity to—"
"Not now." Elijah is firm. "We have all week to decide on how we want to play this."
"True," Seven agrees. "We can do this Saturday or Sunday before we take her back. I don't want a new plan hanging over any of our heads this whole fucking week."
Atticus pokes his head back into the room. "What about a new plan? And I thought we agreed she'd stay until Saturday?"
"Thought you were making gratin?" Elijah asks.
I wince when I remember our time is actually shorter than they think. "I sort of forgot to mention that I need to be back on campus Friday."
Seven cocks his head at me. "What for? There are no classes."
"No, but you guys told me to make friends, remember? And friends like to invite you to things. I could only say no so many times."
"Wait, Friday?" Elijah asks. "Like, Halloween?"
"Did you get invited to a Halloween party, Ro?"
I groan as I drop my head into my hands.
The armchair shifts as Seven perches himself on its arm, and I peek up at him. The bastard is grinning down at me with keen—if a little murderous—interest in his cutting blue eyes. "Who invited you?"
He's going to love this. "Bailey."
His smile turns tight. "Is that so?"
"But it was Maisie who twisted my arm into going."
"You can't cancel?" Elijah asks, and I almost laugh at the pained expression on his face.
"No," Atticus answers before I can. "She needs to be doing normal college shit. Parties are part of that. She should go."
There's a short growl from the arm of my chair as Seven glares at Atticus, but then he's all smiles for me again. "If you're going, you'll need a costume. Any ideas?"
I shrug. "Didn't think that far."
"I'm sure we can come up with something."
Elijah sucks his teeth, and I want to laugh and hug him at the same time for the concern in his expression. He does not need to be worried about Bailey or any other guy on campus. None of them need to be.
But it's cute that they are.
"I should get dinner finished," Atticus says, eyes sliding to me. "You eating with us?"
There's a challenge in his words, and no one in the room misses it.
I haven't eaten anything since this afternoon, and I'm not hungry, but whatever the fuck he cooked in there smells like it was made just for me and I know I have to eat something.
Or maybe it's the guilt talking, because I wasn't the snake he thought I was when he threatened me all those weeks ago…
But maybe I am now.
I could demand they all sit back down. Tell them there's one more thing I need to say.
Instead, my traitorous lips form entirely different words. "What did you make?"
"Pork belly and jalapeno mac and cheese."
Sweet Jesus.
He watches my throat bob and his lips twitch. I can always tell them after dinner.
Or in the morning, after I've slept more than the four hours a night I've been getting lately.
"I guess I could eat."
Atticus clears his throat in a failed attempt to conceal his satisfaction. "Great. It'll be ready in thirty."
Then he's gone.
Seven's hand finds my back, and when I shift toward him, he slips his fingers up into my hair, tipping my face up.
"I can think of a few things that take roughly thirty minutes," he teases, sharing a meaningful look with Elijah over my shoulder before those burning blue eyes are on mine again. "And will work up a good appetite in the process."
My core squeezes at the imagery that statement concocts, but…I can't.
Not until I tell them.
How could I?
It wouldn't be right.
He senses or sees something in my expression that I'm not fast enough to hide. "Or, we could chill?"
Ugh. I can't just sit here.
"Atticus suggested we get you practicing on the range while you're here," Elijah suggests. "It's cold as fuck out, so we weren't going to bring it up until tomorrow, but we could go shoot a few rounds, get you more comfortable with a weapon again."
"Hand-to-hand combat, too," Seven adds. "Though I find sparring in the nude preferable, I guess there's a lot I could teach you with your clothes on."
Despite myself, I laugh.
I still feel too shitty to spar nude or clothed right now, but I could definitely shoot some shit. In fact, I would fucking love to.
"The range," I decide, and Elijah rises, ready to go in an instant.
"You're going to love it," Seven says animatedly. "Atty let me make targets out of Ambrose's face."