CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
GAGE
T he deepfakes posted this morning. Liam is a goddamn wizard. He managed to craft a few of Ainsley outside the Zurich Airport, which would be a logical layover on the way to the Maldives. The body he adhered her face to was spot-on, and he even took one of the departure boards behind her and backdated it a couple of weeks—swapping out all the flight times, numbers, dates—so it appears as though she traveled a while ago.
The best part about those shots is that none of them are up close. Her hunters may even question if it’s really her. You’d think that wouldn’t be a positive, but that small detail makes it seem realistic. And the shots are from different angles of her wrangling her bag, so when they zoom in, they’ll find the confirmation in both her profile and her deadpan image.
The other setting was the Maldives, as discussed. Liam found a woman on the beach that he was able to swap for Ainsley—very similar build and skin tone. We even replicated the burn and puzzle-piece tattoo, had it peeking out of the skimpy bikini bottoms. The whole thing was fucking impressive. The team we placed there has shown her picture to a few store owners, subtly mentioning which house she’s supposed to be in, which will guide her hunters to the residence, where they’ll receive the meeting information. Provided they don’t bomb the place.
But it’s been a stressful three days since the call, and Ainsley started her period, so it’s all weighing on her heavier.
I fed her some painkillers and left her a Scrabble phrase about an hour ago. And now it’s time to make the magic happen.
With my supplies in hand, I head back to find her snuggled in bed. Wallowing in our dim bedroom.
She has always had terrible cramps and a sort of the-world-is-ending outlook during her time of the month. Sometimes, it makes her meaner, which I’m fucking here for. But other times, it makes her sad. That twists my gut and leaves me feeling helpless. It’s been a mix over the last twenty-four hours. But she hates the melancholy as much as I do, so she generally sways back to the anger.
When we were younger, George would fill me in, alerting me to her mood. On really bad days, she’d still come to the senior recreation center, but we’d hunker down in the back on the employee sofa, eating snacks and just talking. While I highly doubt they were for her, period dates were some of my favorite.
I’ve always been drawn to her strength, but I crave being her warrior.
Then and now.
“It’s two in the afternoon, Ains. Time to eat.”
“I’m not in the mood,” she grumbles, burrowing her head between two pillows.
It’s weird how, in some ways, we’re so different from those kids who fell in love, surrounded by mayhem and senior citizens, and in others, we’re exactly the same. She never could eat when she was anxious. It’s a neon sign about her mental state.
Her account of the struggles she’d faced during her pregnancy slam into me. Of course she was anxious and depressed, and her stress level was so high that she was unable to eat or sleep. Between us being separated, the threats her father spewed at her, and her witnessing George’s death, it’s a wonder she found the strength to get out of bed. And every time those thoughts swarm me, I’m overwhelmed with both rage and grief. I should have been there, spoiling her, watching her grow, holding her, and feeling our baby kick. Protecting her.
It guts me, but getting stuck in that regret won’t do us any good. That’s not what she needs from me. I’m here now.
And there are a couple of foods she never turns down.
“All right,” I sing, plopping onto the love seat. “More for me. You’re not really a fan of brownies or ghetto nachos anyway, right?”
She bolts straight up in bed, like I knew she would. “You made me ghetto nachos? Jalapenos?”
This was the best recipe I had at the ripe old age of twenty. Without much money growing up, I learned that a tasty meal was all about combining a few simple ingredients to create something special. Nachos with all the fixings were too expensive. But sprinkle some Doritos—or since those were a luxury, any off-brand cheesy tortilla chip—with shredded cheese and jalapenos, pop it in the microwave, and my broke ass had five-star cuisine. Ainsley, who had been used to far more complex delicacies, was wowed. It only enhanced her obsession with the other side of the tracks.
“Who said they were for you?” I volley, biting into one with an exaggerated crunch .
“You just fucking did,” she snaps, throwing her hand toward the door. “When you came in and said it was time to eat.”
“I didn’t say it was time for you to eat. You’re not hungry, and I don’t fucking share food.” I bounce my eyebrows while popping another Dorito into my mouth and choking back my laughter when her eyes bug out in rage. “Fine,” I sigh. “Since you’re in one of your moods, you can have a brownie.”
She briefly contemplates taking the brownie because she loves those also, but she’s too fucking stubborn to go down without a fight. “You know, completely normal women become homicidal during their periods sometimes. Brave to keep those from me when, on my very best hormonal days, I’ve killed men over less.”
That makes me cackle. The eerie delivery, along with her disheveled appearance, could break any man and completely validate the threat. But she has no right looking that sexy with her hair mussed—a messy bun that is more mess than bun—wearing one of my old, beat-up T-shirts, no makeup, and eyes chillier than the polar ice caps. Breathtaking.
Christ, I’m gone for this woman. So in love with her. I just want to be done with everything and stow away in a cave with her. Making her laugh. Pissing her off. Watching her come. What more could I possibly want?
I bite another chip—one with an extra jalapeno—and goad her a bit more. “I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but it seems my life hangs in the balance, so I’ll take my chances.” Licking my lips, I release an inciting moan. “Mmm. Totally worth it.”
She springs off the bed, and I swear to fuck, a bestial growl rumbles in her throat as she lands on the cushion beside me. When she rips the plate from my hands with a winning smile, we both break into laughter.
“I knew I could get you out of bed,” I tease, snatching a brownie from the other plate. “How are your cramps?”
“Easing up a bit.” Her eyes flutter closed as she bites into the snack she considered killing me for. “I knew you wanted a fight. But now that I taste them, I actually would have maimed you for this.”
“Been a while since you’ve had our old standby?” I ask, draping her legs across my lap.
“Not since … back then,” she admits. “I’m not sure why. I guess I didn’t want them if you weren’t making them.”
A pang of guilt swarms my chest. I wipe my hands, pass her a can of iced tea, and share something that’s hard to explain. “There was this one day when Ivy was first with us that she got her period and was depressed. I had despised her since I’d first met her, assuming she was going to be the wedge that ripped apart the family I finally had. But that day … it was … I don’t know really.” My fingers skim over her thigh, kneading her sore muscles as I realize how nervous I am. “She looked so sad, and I stopped hating her. I remember staring at her exhausted face, and it was like you were there. But suddenly, the hurt I felt about losing you was … different.”
“Different how?” she asks, far more interested in the story than the food she’s now ignoring.
A smirk tugs at my lips from the memory. It was a turning point that I didn’t fully grasp the gravity of at the time. “Different from wanting to burn all women at the stake,” I confess, tucking some of her rogue chocolate-and-honey wisps behind her ear. “I’m not sure if it was a conscious thought, but I wanted to feel you. So, I made her our nachos.”
She cocks her head to the side, and her voice is feathery. “You did?”
“Yeah.” I nod, my breath caught because I don’t want to hurt her, but I refuse to let there be even the slightest thing between us. “I wasn’t sure if I should tell you because it was our tradition, and I know it’s been hard to see that I had this life while we were … apart. But after I gave her the nachos, the strangest thing happened. She was so grateful for such a simple gesture. We didn’t get along perfectly after that, but—”
“She said you were a real dick in the beginning.” A smile blooms on her face that lights up the whole damn world.
“I was.” I chuckle, loving that Ivy told her that. “But those nachos were an olive branch, and it was all you.”
She doesn’t respond immediately. She eats some chips, wipes her hands, and cracks open her tea for a sip, likely processing her feelings through it. “It’s okay. I’m glad you told me,” she finally utters. “I’m actually kind of touched that you shared these with her, that you kept a part of us alive.”
The worry of hurting her again tumbles from my chest. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” She nods. “I mean, I’m not going to pretend I’m not jealous. It hurts that she’s had these moments with you … but that’s the small part of me that wishes you were tormented every minute we were apart.” She flashes her wicked grin, and those captivating blues sparkle with some of the playfulness from our youth. “It’s mostly the opposite. I adore her, and I’m glad you found some peace while we were estranged. Besides, we’re together now. You’re mine.”
Fuck, I love her possessiveness.
“I was always yours.” I kiss her temple and breathe in the coconut-seaside fragrance. “And I’m glad you adore Ivy. You’re important to her. Did you read your Scrabble phrase?”
“I did.” She snags a piece of a brownie, pinning me with a quizzical pout. “What the hell is a period party?”
Without answering, I glance at the time, help her quickly polish off the last few nachos, and clean her up. “Get back in bed.”
She groans, but crawls right back into the spot I found her in. And, fuck me , her every move is feline. So damn sexy.
As she’s snuggling back into her pillows, she rolls her eyes when she catches me gawking at her. “If period party is code for railing me, you’re best to wait a few days. You won’t want any part of that. I’m heavy and gross today. Nothing good is happening down there for anybody.”
Before I can refute everything about that statement, a commotion draws our attention. Rena skips in first, diving onto the bed with a bewildered Ainsley and offering her a butterscotch candy. Ainsley takes it, but her eyebrows are pinched as the rest of the family piles into the room.
Ivy climbs onto the other side of the bed, issuing apologies. “I feel responsible for this bizarre tradition. Sorry.”
“I’m not sure I understand what’s happening,” Ainsley murmurs.
“That’s pretty much how everything goes around here,” Celeste replies, nudging Ivy over to take the space on the end. “The guys really can’t stand it when we sulk.”
Right on cue, Ty and Wells breeze in with buckets of popcorn, and Liam is behind them with the pint-sized princess and a six-pack of beer. I throw a blanket down on the floor for Felicity, who has been trying her damnedest to crawl, while the guys unload their snacks.
“Let the period party begin,” Liam proclaims. “Time to soak up all the fun.”
“Jesus Christ,” Wells mutters under his breath.
Ainsley peers across Ivy to answer Celeste, brows in a permanent furrowed line now. “I wasn’t sulking in front of everyone.”
“Doesn’t matter, girl,” Rena declares, candy clacking against her teeth. “They can sense it.”
Ivy balks. “Not exactly. Gage announced to the house that you were on your period, and—”
“Motherfucker,” Ainsley gasps, leering at me.
The guys belt out a chorus of laughter, always happy when anyone other than them is being thrown under the goddamn bus.
My unyielding gaze lands on the redheaded troublemaker. “You’re just fucking selling me out one little snippet at a time, aren’t ya, traitor?”
“Don’t be a sissy,” Ivy quips from her perch with the girls. “I’m an equal-opportunity ouster. I’ve filled Ainsley in on all of you.”
“What the fuck is with the feisty attitude, High Society?” Liam scorns, relaxing into my leather chair, kicking his feet out, and grabbing the remote. “You’re not even the one on the goddamn rag.”
“We’ll probably all sync up,” Celeste snarks with an evil grin at her husband.
“I gotta second that, Freckles.” Ty points at Liam, bypassing Celeste’s comment, as he settles in with a bucket of popcorn. “There’s no need for a bloodbath.”
Liam howls, his eyes watering instantly in appreciation of the smart-ass gibe. “Perfect. Fucking. Timing, Tytan.”
“No worries, sailor,” Rena croons, winking at her husband. “I always keep your best attributes front and center.”
“Do not even start cock talk,” I warn her because she’s as bad as Liam.
Ainsley covers her face in exasperation, but she’s giggling. “Good Lord, you’re all so weird.”
“Like herding fucking cats,” Wells interjects from the floor beside Felicity.
“It really is,” Celeste agrees, and she’s beaming ear to ear when she glances at Ainsley and adds, “He says that all the time.”
“Makes sense,” Ainsley returns.
“Show?” Liam asks. “And none of that dark-ages girlie romantic bullshit.”
“ Bridgerton is Regency era, dipshit.” I shake my head. “Fucking dark ages.”
Wells always has to be in charge, even when he’s cooing at an infant, so he settles it for us. “Ainsley’s pick.”
“How about The Bear ?” she suggests.
“Oh, yes.” Rena claps with a whoop. “Lots of drama in that one. Someone’s always screaming in the clips I’ve seen.”
I nearly choke on a swill of the iced tea. “That explains it being Wicked’s pick.”
She chucks a pillow at me in response with a sassy, “They also cook, and I thought someone might like that,” and the glint in her eyes is unmistakable. A happy glint.
She’s overwhelmed, but in the best of ways. Maybe she doesn’t want to latch on to this, for fear it will all be snatched away, ignoring the stakes of the war and focusing on the battle , like she revealed a few days ago. But when this crew adopts someone, there’s no letting them go.
Whatever comes next, we face it together. At present, that’s a few intense episodes of The Bear with the entire room’s commentary. Halfway through, Wells puts Felicity in her own room for a nap, and the rest of us just loaf. No work. No stress. It’s a perfect afternoon to ease Ainsley out of her funk, but as my mind wanders to some of our conversations, a disquieting feeling settles over me.
A few weeks ago, when Ainsley was telling me that she hadn’t been with Nick for a while, she said something that didn’t make a lot of sense to me because it almost made Nick sound considerate, which I knew was off, but I didn’t want to press her about it. At the time, I didn’t know how volatile the situation was, only that she’d been forced to marry him, so sleeping with him was violating.
“I paid a gynecologist about eight months ago to diagnose me with severe endometriosis so that I couldn’t … or at least so he wouldn’t want to.”
I thought she meant because of the pain, but the asshole was so disgusted by blood that he wouldn’t risk it. What a sorry excuse for a man in the Mafia. That explains why she referred to herself as gross a little while ago when she thought I was putting her in bed for a much hotter reason.
My entire body is buzzing with outrage. Christ, I wish that motherfucker were still alive so I could kill him—slowly. I’d make him drink his own piss and blood until it ended him.
“Everybody, get the fuck out,” I holler, to which half of them laugh and the other half ignore me and keep watching. Stomping over to Liam, I grab the remote and turn off the show. “Now. Out!”
“Ooh,” Rena warbles with a shoulder shimmy. “I think he’s gonna fuck you now.”
“That was my fucking line, Moonshine,” Liam sneers, full of mischief. “You and Goldilocks steal all my shit.” He sets his gaze on his wife. “At least I’ve got the Ace.”
“Fuck it.” I drag a wide-eyed and squealing Ainsley to the edge of the bed by her ankle and throw her over my shoulder as I address them, “Stay if you want, but I make no fucking apologies for the screams coming out of our bathroom.”
The peanut gallery hisses a myriad of sentiments that I dismiss in pursuit of my mission.
“Gage, what … put me down,” Ainsley stammers, smacking me on the back—tiny pinprick punches against my spine—as if that would deter me.
I tromp into the bathroom, flip on the shower, and demolish every objection she has on the tip of her tongue with a few simple sentences. “You’re stunning. I want it all, Ains. Your blood. Your brokenness. Every piece of you.”
Her breath shudders out with a nod, eyes brimming with emotion. She disappears into the toilet room for a minute and returns for me to undress us both. We slip under the flow of multiple jets, designed to soothe sore muscles. I suds her up, washing every inch of her—hair to orange-painted toes—with her tropical-scented body wash, shampoo, and conditioner so she feels fresh. None of that matters to me, but I want her in a frame of mind to enjoy herself. To grasp how desperately she’s wanted.
We don’t say much. She lets me take care of her, probably realizing how much we both need that. It’s one of the most intimate experiences we’ve ever shared, and it’s not even sexual yet. But it’s raw and vulnerable, like all our hurts are mixed with the crimson river swirling around the drain.
I drop to my knees to scrub her legs and feet, and as she grips on to my shoulders, I hear her sharp intake of air. My eyes float up to hers, and it’s as though her heart were outside of her body, begging to be held. Gliding my lips over her burn—the scar of her abuse and the ink of us that she used to cover it—I pepper it with soothing kisses, hoping she understands I want that too. She’s frozen, breathless, watching. So, I nudge her against the back wall of the shower. There isn’t a nozzle there, but the steam is so thick that she won’t get chilled.
When I throw her leg over my shoulder, she sputters a protest. “Gage.”
Ignoring her, since it wasn’t a no, I lap over her pussy with a flat tongue before concentrating flicks on her clit that have her moaning, but still apprehensive. “Every piece, Wicked.” Kiss. “Beautiful.” Suck. “Mine.”
Her nails dig into my skin, branding me with another sprinkling of half-moons. My hands skate up to her ass, squeezing as I devour her, tongue fucking her cunt and sucking on her clit. She loses herself, chucks her inhibitions like my brave girl, and swivels her hips for more friction, leaving her stain on my chin and embedding it into my scruff so I feel like a goddamn warrior. The thunderous rumble that rises from my chest is proof.
And as I shove her over the precipice, I savor her moans, her erratic breaths, her addictive flavor. The variation of her sweet musk, mixed with a coppery tang, is the gift of inhaling another piece of her that is only mine.
“Fuck.” She trembles, shivers racking through her as she holds on to me for dear life, which is every-fucking-thing I’ve ever wanted.
Seconds after she’s finished, I rise and thrust inside her without warning—the ferociousness we crave. Because we’re both a lot untethered and yet intrinsically woven with one another. So connected that we could never be whole apart.
She tangles her limbs around me while I press her against the marble wall and slam inside her, my mouth colliding with hers so she can taste the spellbinding elixir she allowed me to consume.
“That’s the flavor of perfection, Ains. There is never a time this pussy—or any part of you—isn’t a fantasy I want to bathe in. My fucking home.” To emphasize how much I love it, I slide my fingers between us—forking over my cock to gather her flow—and trail them across my chest and up my neck, painting myself in the remnants of what she’s bestowed upon me as I continue to ram inside her.
“Jesus,” she hisses, her features teeming with lust but still glimmering with her smart-ass wit. “You’re like a damn Viking.”
Thrust.
Her sultry pants and whimpers trump any other snarky thoughts she has, her body eagerly climbing back to the summit. Jolting from my pumps. Begging.
Harder.
All of it sparks my savage need for more. For everything. For the fortune we were robbed.
“IUD?” I ask, our bodies slick and sticky with blood, sweat, and residual beads of the shower water.
Slam.
“Yeah.” She stares at the streaks I made before traveling lower to the mess of us both slathered in her. Another striking depiction of the glorious gore that melds us to one another.
Deeper.
“It comes out,” I demand, and her icy blues lock on to me, puddling with all we’ve been through and all we still have to face.
Because we both recognize that this bloodstained encounter is our calm before the storm. A moment we’re seizing because nothing else is guaranteed.
But there’s more to her gaze. There’s hope.
There’s finally fucking hope.
Our bloody benediction.
She swallows, the haze of euphoria hooding her eyes, yet she still manages a stilted, “Okay,” that rises with the billowing steam.
That’s as good as a promise of forever for me.
Despite my cock protesting, I pull out and crouch before her. Ainsley groans, but her crystal blues narrow in suspicion. She knows what I’m up to before I even do it. No objections. Or maybe she’s a deer caught in headlights. Either way, I forge ahead, slinging her leg over my shoulder again and plunging my hand far enough inside her to weed through the blood and locate the IUD strings.
Summoning my inner nurse, I sing a syrupy, high-pitched, “Just a quick pinch,” which makes her cackle in equal measures of amusement and shock.
The strings are slippery, but it only takes a swift yank to pull it out. She doesn’t even flinch. I check it over, ensuring it isn’t missing any parts, and set it on the shower shelf. It’s a copper IUD. I did some research on the different types of birth control, planning to remove whatever she had. Eventually. Mid-period fucking seems to have worked out fine.
Wasting no more time, I slam back into my girl, delivering every ounce of friction she craves.
“That’s better,” I rasp against her mouth, and a primal exhilaration surges through me, knowing another barrier is gone. “I want everything, Ains.”
Her eyes rollick over me, noting how my entire body is stained with her now. By her hitched breath, I know she grasps that it’s far more than what’s coloring the outside of me. Her mark is everywhere.
My heart. My soul. My DNA. No me without her.
“Everything,” she whispers, coiling her arms around my neck as she quickly crests her rapturous peak again. “You’re kind of crazy, but it’s all yours.”
Mine.
And as I embrace my whole world, I thrust with all I am and reinforce the only thing I need her to remember as we both tumble into ecstasy. “Nothing will ever keep us apart again. I will slaughter anything between us—avenge your past and be your future. No matter what, we hold the fuck on.”