Charring Bones (The KORT #4)

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

AINSLEY

M y eyes fly open to the sound of cracking eggshells. That’s possibly metaphorical. Eggshells are definitely the flooring everyone in this house has been walking on for the past week. At least around me. But it’s four thirty a.m., so I’d be willing to wager several cartons that there are indeed some eggs being cracked.

By the boy— man —with amber eyes. One and the same.

Mine.

I don’t do mornings or baking really. But both are calling to me, so I crawl out of bed, sweep my unruly waves into a knot atop my head, and throw a pair of Gage’s rolled boxers on beneath one of his Black Rifle Coffee T-shirts.

Sleep has been an elusive concept since I came home from the hospital. That has little to do with my head injury and everything to do with the heaviness that’s descended upon us since. It’s a convoluted blanket of stress and worry, anger and shame. The latter two seem to be primarily mine and Gage’s, but on occasion, they trickle through the other guys’ reactions.

All of it tangles me up, confusing everything.

On one hand, I’m experiencing a pinch-me reality. These people are for real, and when I don’t overanalyze all the ways it could fall apart, they feel like mine. They care.

But on the other hand, those difficult emotions the guys seem to be nursing, regarding what I endured, keep the past alive for me. And I’m desperate to bury it once and for all.

Aside from that double-edged sword, there’s the shit we have to accomplish to satisfy my deal with KORT—tracking Theo down, who is currently MIA, and securing the cards that offer access to controlling the media. It’s not enough to figure out where Nick’s is. KORT won’t be happy unless they have both. We’re also hoping Theo might have information that will help me figure out where Nick would have hidden his because short of ransacking the grand multigenerational Morelli Tudor, I’m coming up empty.

At least there’s a clear objective. Despite that, the guys have been morose. They don’t talk much about it, but it’s in the crackling molecules of the air pulsing around us like a ticking time bomb. My father’s clock still reigns.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Before I mosey downstairs, I catch sight of my Scrabble word. Gage leaves me one every morning now.

That’s not gibberish. It’s an Italian pastry—pronounced sfol-ya-tel-le—that has a delectable, flaky clam-shaped shell and a sweet ricotta pudding inside it. My grandmother used to bake them with me when I was young. She died when I was eight, but she lived with us until then. She and my grandfather were the origin of our multigenerational home. And those baking memories are some of my favorite family moments. The recipe is a mighty step up from banana bread, but maybe Gage is intent on leaning into his Italian roots.

The house is still at this early hour, so I creep along quietly. I don’t intend to sneak up on him, but when I tiptoe to a stair where I catch a glimpse, I slink down the wall to perch there. And watch. He’s so peaceful. So engrossed in his work. All the stiffness in his shoulders has dissipated. All the guilt and anguish he’s been carting around, especially since his interrogation session, seem to be cast aside.

Here, he isn’t the man I’ve got a complicated history with. He’s Josh .

Ivy’s words flood me, from way back when she strutted into my room and told me she’d once burned their house down, encouraging me to believe there was more for Gage and me.

“I may not have known Josh then, but he’s here now.”

And this is when she sees him. I’ve come to love her so much, and yet still a pang of jealousy wallops me. She’s not here this morning. She hasn’t been baking with her broken arm. Not that I’d ever dream of interfering with their time if she was. I know he needs it, needs her. And we have our own special things. It’s just … something I need to digest a little more, I suppose.

“Can’t sleep, Wicked?” He doesn’t even look up from his kneading task with that question. Of course he knew I was here.

My morning voice is hoarse, fraught with vulnerability. “I missed you.”

He turns his head away from the dough as a laden breath shudders free. But then he masks it with a smile. “Well, I always miss you, baby. I’m glad you’re here.”

That stirs something deep inside my gut that has me questioning if those heightened post-head-trauma emotions are still in control. Or if this man simply has a superpower of burrowing under my skin and owning my soul.

“It must be lonely, baking without Ivy.” Yes, I’m fishing or poking a bear or—I don’t know—trudging on the outskirts of some wilderness activity. It’s the only way I can fathom sharing what I’m honestly feeling without saying that I’m jealous of the woman who has been more family than either of us has ever had.

His ambers finally float up to me, and in them is a typhoon of our past and present, future and pain. He’s shouldering too much. “I love baking with Ivy. It’s one of my favorite things.” He kicks his chin up, beckoning me to join him. “But I’d love it even more if you were with us each morning. And she’d want you to join us too.”

That slams right into my chest, so if it’s not the head trauma, then this man, this family, and this house have made me a sappy mess. My only response is to sashay down the steps, make my way to the other side of the prepping island, and try to collect myself.

My nails perform a giddyup waltz on the counter, thrumming a lightheartedness into the weighty space. “It wasn’t just that I missed you. It’s also hard to sleep during your naked parade.”

And that wins me a dazzling, eye-crinkling smile. “My naked parade?”

My fingers itch with the desire to do my own kneading, so as I breeze over to the sink, I call his attention to the fact that he often forgets he’s not alone for his dawn routine anymore. “Yeah, when you strut around naked and check yourself out in all the mirrors.”

He waggles his brows, haughty smirk in full force. “I look fucking good in the morning.”

Good Lord, does he? Mouthwatering. Dehydrating overnight emphasizes every spectacular spec of him. Muscles upon muscles, taut and sculpted and chiseled. And his cock is rightfully arrogant. It’s almost reason enough for me to convert to being an early riser.

“You got me there, Big Guy.” Flipping on the faucet, I bite my lip and bat my lashes. “You sport one hell of a morning-wood salute, and those pecs sure can dance.”

A guffaw booms from the depths of his chest, and his pecs perform a two-step for me. The rumble ricochets around the room as he feeds dough through a pasta machine to flatten it. He doesn’t mess around with his hobby. My grandmother used a rolling pin, which took far longer to achieve the desired cone shape. Not that the pasta machine makes this a simple recipe, but it cuts down on time a bit.

“Well,” he drawls, all gruff and sexy, “anytime you want to join the parade or steal the show, I’m in.”

“Noted,” I volley while sudsing up. “What made you decide to make sfogliatelle ?”

“It’s a taste of home for you—a good taste. You need to let go of the past, but I also want you to hold on to the good. The memories with your grandma, with George”—he glances up—“and with me are keepers.”

I shut the sink off and grab a paper towel, a disbelieving gust of air escaping my constricted lungs because I’m constantly baffled by this man. “How do you remember that I made these with her? I don’t even remember telling you.”

“When will you get it, Ains? You’re all I am. Every cell of mine is etched with you, with us. Far beyond the tattoos or the W carved into my chest. I remember everything.”

Jesus, that knocks the wind out of me. Literally. I’m frozen, gaping at him while those words really penetrate.

His lips twitch, wrestling against a grin. “You told me when we were skinny-dipping, so I really should get a fucking medal for remembering anything other than your phenomenal body.”

My breath stutters out as I throw the paper towel in the trash. Consider me thawed. “Well, that makes a lot more sense. I was probably nervous, rambling, and preoccupied by yours.”

He lays the dough out in a thin sheet and paints it with butter. “I was never able to separate the good from the bad. It was so jumbled, which only made the loss greater. So, I think it’s important for you to know that you’re loved, that you’ve always been loved.”

And that emotion I’ve been keeping at bay morphs into a boulder at the base of my throat, but I push past it and start rolling the buttered strip into a tight sausage shape. “I think you did better than you realize. You wear the Italian horn, so you hung on to your heritage. The tattoos, the ghetto nachos, the memories—even when you were hurting, you kept us alive.”

“Yeah,” he rasps, feeding the last section of dough through the pasta machine. “I guess I did.”

Since the morning stillness seems to draw out his pensive side, I address the concern I’ve had the past week as we work. “You’re hurting now.”

For a long minute, he leans into his task—flattening and buttering the final sheet and rolling it around my sausage-shaped piece to create a cylinder—until he finally speaks. “No, baby. I’m good.”

“Don’t do that,” I insist, stretching the plastic wrap out so we can swaddle the dough. “Don’t keep things between us—anger, guilt, misunderstandings. None of it. You’ve got this introspective air about you today, so own it.”

“Okay.” He nods beside me. “I’m just … having a hard time with …” His response trails off as he pats down the seams on the plastic, snatches the wrapped pieces, and puts them in the fridge.

Hoping he’ll elaborate, I wipe the counters down. Waiting.

He washes his hands and sidles up behind me, his arms hooking around my waist, his nose nuzzling into the slope of my neck. And his heavy breath fans over my skin. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

He’s been bottling that up since he came back from debriefing Tony, Levi, and Mateo. We haven’t discussed it because KORT is allotting him time to watch over my recovery, so he’s demanded that be our only focus. And he’s taken that to an extreme, rarely leaving my side and not permitting me to lift a finger. I’m not complaining. I know it’s because he loves me. It’s the guilt that I don’t want to see.

He didn’t tell me much about the torture, other than he lit Tony up like a firecracker. I would have given just about anything to be part of that. But I’m glad I wasn’t there because he also told me that Tony had detailed what he had done to me, and I don’t think I could have stomached that. I’ve fought really hard not to let that night define my life, my thoughts, my identity.

Reaching behind me, I stroke the smooth skin at the nape of Gage’s neck and afford him his uncomposed moment, his agony leaking into my skin. While I don’t want him to fall apart because of this, I think it’s probably cathartic.

But after a couple of minutes, I lay out my request. “I’m sorry too. So sorry. But we’ve made our apologies. We were both involved in battles, both made choices based on what we believed to be true, both spent time as prisoners. I appreciate your compassion, but I need you to let it go.”

“I can’t.” His voice is so raw, so broken. It makes me ache.

“Then they win.” My hand smacks down on the counter, ire pulsing through me. “If we hold on to it, then it doesn’t matter that they aren’t roaming the earth anymore. They’re haunting us, destroying the happiness we finally have.”

He sucks in a sharp inhale and angles his head so he can peek at my face, as if he isn’t quite ready to show me his.

So, I add to my rant. “Nick and my father stole a lot from me over the years. From both of us. And after the night with Tony and later finding out about the baby, I would’ve said they’d stolen everything. But then I got you back. And on top of that, we have this houseful of people, who have proven what family should’ve always been. It’s okay to hurt, but don’t carry guilt for what they did. Our best revenge is to be happy.”

I pause because that’s the healthy, warm-and-fuzzy answer, but he nicknamed me Wicked for a reason, so I mean the next part with every breath in my body. “After killing all the Morellis and Vittoris, of course.”

That finally has him bellowing a boisterous laugh, squeezing me tighter as he reaches for his phone and taps something out on it. “Of course. Romans in Carthage.” He sets it down and drags his lips along my neck, a flourishing of bumps sprouting in their wake. “Scorch. Stack.”

“Salt … and then we live,” I finish because I remember everything, too, and he was far wiser than either of us realized back then.

“I am happy, Ains,” he rasps against my skin as his hands meander in opposite directions, one hiking up to palm my breast, the other trekking lower to glide between my thighs. “Happier than I’ve ever been.”

His frisky hands are welcome. He’s been overly cautious since I came home, doting and cuddling, which was amazing, but I’ve missed this.

“Good,” I breathe, shallow and eager while he plants kisses and nips from my jaw to shoulder. “I’m happy too. So, you’ll let your guilt go, just like you told me to separate the good from the bad. And I’ll try to tame my jealousy about you down here with Ivy every morning because while I appreciate the invite, I don’t think I’ll ever get up this early again.”

“Well then”—he yanks my boxers down, letting them slink to the floor—“maybe we should make our time here stand out. Try some new baking techniques that I can only test with my wicked sous chef.”

“Hmm.” I tap my lips and wiggle my ass against his hard jean-clad length. “Like a new recipe? Maybe a spicier one?”

He thrusts two fingers inside me—in and out several times—before he raises them to his mouth for a sample with a feral growl. “Nah. I’m craving orange Creamsicle.”

“Sounds yummy,” I say, spinning in his embrace. “Please introduce me to the culinary arts, Chef Porter.”

His first lesson is a taste test. He plunges his fingers back inside me and delivers them to my mouth. “Gourmet crema is a good place to start, but I’ve got some ideas.”

I savor his offering with a tantalizing moan, which has him beaming. He winks and strides to the freezer, selecting something, before rummaging through a couple of drawers and returning with several items—one of them an egg timer. Excitement radiates off him. And lust pours off me. I don’t know how he’s transformed sex from an activity that was riddled with shame and defeat into one that has me aroused and empowered, but he has.

He lays the items down, and his ambers bore into me, his mind lingering on the same concept mine was, but with reservations. “I need you to answer one thing for me, and then I’ll leave it alone. You like the way we do things? How rough—”

“What others did to try to break me is irrelevant because everything you do reminds me that I won’t. You build me up, see my strengths, and love me enough to fulfill my fantasies.” I fist his T-shirt, pulling him closer. “Don’t ever hold back with me. Fuck me like you hate me. It makes me feel alive.”

“Christ, I really fucking do, Ains—love you, that is. So much.”

He clutches my jaw, pinning me in place with a searing kiss. His lips meld to mine, his tongue licking at the seam until I open, and we melt into an all-consuming tethering.

Jesus, I think I could survive solely on his kisses forever.

But in a blink, he’s boosting me onto the counter and ripping off the T-shirt. So, this could be fun too.

“You know,” I stammer as I sit naked in the middle of the kitchen and he tears the wrapper off an orange Creamsicle, my thoughts growing fuzzy, “umm … so many questions. To start … other people live here, and you’re not going to fuck me with that, are you?”

That screams yeast infection. But I wait for his answer before I share that mood killer.

He sucks on it and then lowers it to my breast, circling one nipple before moving to the other. The cold, slushy sensation has them perking up even tauter, and shivers skitter down my spine. He passes it to me to hold and slides an oversize dish towel—or mappine , as my family called them—behind me.

“No insertion. And no one will bother us. I reserved the first floor. Lie back.”

My brain isn’t quite firing on all cylinders. He reserved the first floor? I should definitely inquire as to what that means, but his tongue is whirling over my nipples, lapping up every bead of orange Creamsicle like a thirsty man devouring raindrops for survival. So, I lie down with the dish towel tucked under the small of my back and enjoy.

He snatches the Popsicle again to line a path from my tits to my clit, teasing in a delectable cadence of frosty swirls, only to devour the sticky fluid and me with a voracious hunger that has my hips jutting up to meet his tongue. He braces my heels on the ledge to afford himself more access and dives in, his finger curling to reach that spot I can never seem to find on my own.

The chill of the treat and the heat of his mouth have me so heady, so desperate. “God, I need you inside me.”

“That’s my greedy girl,” he praises, scooping some of my arousal to drizzle it onto the Creamsicle and handing it back to me. “Your turn. I don’t mind sharing.”

“Mmm,” I moan as I pop it into my mouth, aware that the simple sound will practically bring him to his knees with how turned on he is.

He rips down his zipper, unleashes his cock, grips my hip, and thrusts inside me with so much oomph that a yelp screeches out of me.

Smacking my orange-flavored lips, I mutter my apology. “Oh God. Sorry. I’ll be quiet.”

“No need, baby.” He chuckles, ramming into me with more fervor. “I’ve put up with their horny asses for a long time. I say we wake up the whole goddamn house.”

That’s a valid point. It’s a houseful of bunnies, but still, conflict coasts through me. Wells will really not appreciate awaking to my erotic melody. I’m about to protest when a whirring hiss reaches my ears.

“Hold on, Wicked.” Gage’s husky voice is full of mischief. “Let’s froth that orange crema.”

I lift up on my elbows to watch. When I spotted the handheld milk frother, I didn’t register what it was because I got hung up on the timer. On the highest speed, it’s magical. That much is clear. But to paint a less disturbing picture, he’s using the vibrating handle, which has a blunt end, not ripping my clit off with a spinning whisk.

Flitting my hand in front of him, I gesture for him to take his shirt off while slurping on my orange Creamsicle like a porn star. He releases my hip and complies. And the scene is straight-up filthy.

The force of his thrusts defining every one of his bulging muscles, the culinary tool frothing me to pleasure, and the sight of him buried inside me in the open kitchen—obscene. I think I’m an exhibitionist. Or just a willing whore for Gage Porter. Same.

“Look at you, this perfect pussy, splayed out, so gorgeous for me.” His ogle rakes over me, stalling on my mouth. “You suck that like you wish it was my cock,” he roars, giving in to his animalistic edge, which is downright enrapturing.

“Yeah,” I pant out, so damn dizzy, “I need you to come in my mouth.”

He reaches for me, cupping my cheek. “Such a beautiful slut for me, Ains.” His brows jump for the beamed ceiling. “But that wasn’t on the menu. This seems like a good setting to put a bun in your oven.”

Through my lust-fueled fog, I bite back a coy smile. He’s funny, and his suggestion nestles in my core. Although I’m not sure the timing is quite right with how the sky is falling around us. Of course, without my birth control, if not here, it will happen somewhere else.

But before I can share any of that, he tacks on, “If you want to taste me, you need to beg.”

We’ve been here before—him and his fascination with me begging.

Maybe that should infuriate me. I should be making him beg for something. And I will. I swear this will bite him someday soon. But I’m so lost to the sweltering blaze of this inferno between us that I can’t seem to form snarky words to express that. So, I suck on my Popsicle and watch his thick cock sink inside me again and again while my hips scooch forward of their own accord and my clit tingles, preparing me for my flight off the blissful summit. My back arches, my body pleading.

A smack to my breast snaps me out of my daze—a silicone spatula furnishing a delicious sting that rockets through me. And my unhinged man flashes his roguish grin, ambers glinting with a dare as he bestows another one on the opposite tit, frother still frothing on my clit. His coordination and multitasking skills are impressive.

God, I really love cooking.

“Yes, more,” I purr, swiping the orange Creamsicle over his lips like a gloss before tossing it aside. “We should’ve baked like this when we were younger. I see the appeal.”

He chuckles as his tongue darts out to gather the juice, and he issues another sting to my breast. “I don’t think they would’ve appreciated this particular method in the senior-center kitchen.”

“We’ll be so much cooler when we’re old. And more satisfied.” I’m not sure how I even get those words out, but I do because he laughs in response.

I once read that laughing during sex was the sign of a healthy relationship and strong intimacy. I’m not sure why that stuck with me, but I can attest to how the freedom Gage and I find in these encounters transcends anything I’ve ever experienced. It’s lust and love, passion and connection, friendship and safety. So fucking real.

The room blurs, and a sheen of sweat glazes my skin like a potent announcement of my impending climax. “I’m so close.”

“Right on time,” he declares.

Every inch of his bronze skin shimmers. Every muscle is clenched and rigid and pulsing. He’s so beautiful. Formidable but so caring. My gentle giant.

His eyes flick to the egg timer, and I register his words.

“What’s with the timer?” I puff out.

“We’re changing the way we view time too, Wicked. We own every second.” He groans through a thrust, his mouth kinked into a crooked smirk. “I allotted us ten minutes of ecstasy before we need to make the filling. Baking 101.” He winks and lowers his gaze to the frother, giving it a little extra pressure that sends me into a frenzy. “I’m ready, baby. Are you?”

My arms and legs start shaking, but I nod and manage to murmur, “Owning our seconds. I love that. Love you,” before relenting because my hunger surpasses my pride. “I need to taste you, Gage. Please. Please come on my tongue.”

“That’s my fucking girl.” His knuckles graze down my cheek, so tender. “I’ll give you anything you want when you beg like that. Anything. Let go for me.”

And I do.

The current that zips through me is nothing short of supernatural, blasting me to a realm of weightless glory as I fall limp on the granite.

Celestial awe from the kitchen counter. A miracle in the mundane.

And the heavenly shower is without end.

Core tight. Limbs trembling. Lungs empty.

Heat and shivers. Fire and ice.

Despite my begging, I feel him swelling inside me, ready to spill, and I’m not mad about it. The anticipation only serves to intensify the floating-down portion of my orgasm.

But after the first shots of his release stream inside me, he pulls out, spins me on the dish towel like I’m a lazy Susan, hangs my head off the edge facing him, and feeds me his satiny cock.

“I’ve had a lot saved up for you, Ains. I’ll fill both holes.”

All righty then.

The angle is unreal. He dips down into the dark edges of my throat, his salty tang awakening my tongue, and his eyes cloud with both adoration and the intoxication of his peak.

After several pumps, his orgasm reignites. He retreats so he’s stroking his shaft, and his crown is hovering just beyond my lips, warm jets of his cum shooting onto my outstretched tongue.

I lick up the remnants from my chin and make a show of devouring him with a satisfied moan as he quakes through his aftershocks. “That’s my taste of home. Five-star cuisine, Chef Porter.”

He looms over me, utterly wrecked. Sweaty and panting. And so vulnerable. “You’re fucking perfect. And all mine.”

“Forever yours,” I whisper.

We’re suspended in a euphoric stupor, taking each other in. But thirty seconds later, when the timer buzzes, it’s abundantly clear to us both that we’re naked, sticky, and covered in cum in the middle of the kitchen. He turns off the egg timer, and we scurry to get dressed.

Once we’re decent, he laces his fingers into my unkempt hair, sweeping his thumb over my cheek as he kisses me with abandon. He nips at my lower lip, his captivating ambers frolicking all over my face. “If you wanted to make sure that I never walked into this kitchen without thinking about you, mission fucking accomplished. Baking will never be the same.”

We sanitized the kitchen—thoroughly. I stole the milk frother. We’ll buy another one. No one would argue with that if they knew. We both showered before we made the filling, filled the pastries, and popped them in the oven.

I’d say we pulled it off without a hitch, but I caught a weird conversation between Liam and Rena. She was hysterical and blushing. Those two are always up to something though. They certainly lend an entertaining element to the household. Still, with the way they’re always messing with people, I’m on guard. And prepared.

We’re all together for breakfast now. In addition to the pastries, we’ve got fruit salad, an egg casserole that Gage made, and Wells whipped up some protein pancakes shortly before we sat down.

Wells scoops fruit onto Ivy’s plate as quickly as she consumes it before dinging his fork near her pancakes, which serves to call attention to both the fact that he wants her to eat them and that he expects us to listen. “It’s been a stressful couple of weeks—”

“Months,” Celeste interjects, to which Ty adds, “Fucking years.”

“Right,” Wells dismisses. “So, let’s push through to end this. We haven’t located Theo yet.”

“No business during breakfast,” Ivy insists.

“We’ve never had that rule, Little Storm,” he counters, and Felicity bangs on her high-chair tray, as though she seconds that.

“We do now,” Ivy sings, twirling her fork with a bite of pancake in the air, like a dare. “We’ve been through enough. Meals are for peaceful family time.” Confident she’s made her point and utterly aware that she’ll win any argument with her arm in a cast, she smiles at me. “Thanks for baking with Gage this morning. I’ve felt terrible about ditching him.”

Rena guffaws. “I think he managed just fine, huh, Big Guy?”

She adds an exaggerated wink to that. I’d say we had a peeping Bratz doll.

Ty’s head whips toward her with the same train of thought. “You said you couldn’t sleep and you were in your music room.”

“I was in my music room,” she avows, rolling her lips in.

Liam kicks back, taking a bite out of his Italian pastry, mischief written in his hazels. “Don’t freak, Tytan. The whole house got a text.”

“I had her phone,” he snaps, tearing off a piece of his own sfogliatelle and side-eyeing his wife before dipping his chin to me. “Good breakfast though, Skittles.”

“Thanks, Ty,” I say, sipping my coffee and relishing my behind-the-scenes vantage point. I can already see the unraveling.

Wells cuts his pastry in half, feeding Felicity some of the filling off his finger. “What the hell are you all getting at?”

“It took me until six to get a damn cup of coffee. That’s the travesty we should be focused on.” Liam has a goading smirk on his face, but it’s aimed at Rena. He knows she saw something.

“There’s a goddamn coffeepot upstairs,” Gage gruffs. “Fucking pus— puppies .”

That correction was for the tiny, cooing doll, lapping up the ricotta custard, and it causes the whole table to burst out in laughter.

“Nice save, Big Guy. But as far as the coffee, it’s the principle,” Liam contends once everyone quiets.

“Sorry about the, uh, … inconvenience,” I mutter, digging into my egg casserole and avoiding eye contact.

“It’s fine, Ainsley.” Wells states that like it’s both assurance for me and a censure for the others. “Ignore Liam. He’s the worst at following protocol. That text reservation is how we do things. Well, not usually an entire floor, but with all the open rooms, no matter where you were, it was needed. We will have to tweak our procedure once Felicity starts—”

“These are so good,” Liam interrupts, holding up his pastry. “Sweet and salty.”

That’s my clue that even though he knows Rena caught a naughty glimpse, she didn’t divulge details.

“Huh.” I hedge for a second. “I used to make them with my grandmother, but they shouldn’t be salty.”

“No?” Rena questions, staring at hers and licking her lips.

They’re generally covered in powdered sugar, which these are, but I added a little something to the troublemakers’ pastries, just in case.

I wave my finger at Rena’s, pointing to the flaky crust that has a small trace of salted condensed milk drizzled on it. “Yours must have something else on it.”

“Mine is tangy.” Celeste leans back in her chair, surveying everyone at the table. “So, where were you two—”

“Don’t make it weird,” Ivy chides. “You can’t ask them questions. How embarrassing.”

Truth.

Celeste balks. “I disagree at the moment.”

“Imagine if we had all interrogated you after your sauna-phone-call soiree,” Ivy argues.

“Right,” Rena scoffs, face as pink as her hair, “but I’m guessing none of you ate in the sauna or consumed anything they made in there.”

“Tell me the first-floor reservation wasn’t for the kitchen amid food prep,” Wells clips, features stern. And panicked.

Gage smirks, quipping, “ Amid food prep is vague, Chief,” but his answer is washed out by the chaos that ensues.

“Where else did you go, Little Moon?” Ty drops his fork and stares at his wife. “Is that why you came back all randy?”

“Well, fuck,” Liam purrs, “let’s hear more about this. Do we have a resident voyeur?”

“Too fucking close,” Gage grumbles.

“Says the guy feeding us postcoital pastries,” Ivy chimes in, full of amusement.

I can’t help giggling into my shoulder. This is a taste of what it must be like to mess with siblings. I get why Liam and Rena pull this shit.

It’s as if Ivy’s pronouncement collides with Liam’s salty remark and Rena’s ramblings and Gage’s answer to Wells for one solid picture of our a.m. rendezvous. All the pastries drop back to the plates with groans and sputters and dramatic sips of beverages. Wells even frantically wipes the filling from Felicity’s now-pouting lips.

Poor baby F-bomb .

Gage cackles and claps, tears running down his face. “Fuck. Every moan and text and unwanted sex detail that you’ve all forced me to endure is worth this one moment right here.” He drags me into his side, kissing my temple. “That was beautiful, Wicked.”

“So, it was a joke?” Celeste rushes out with a relieved exhale. “You have a killer poker face, Ainsley.”

“No, not a joke,” Rena objects, still flustered as she gapes at the condensed milk on her pastry and throws a hitchhiker thumb to me. “They did it in the kitchen. On the counter.”

Ty grips her chin. “How long did you fucking watch, Little Peeping Moon?”

She flits her hand all over the place, brushing off his accusation. “Just … oh my God, it was an accident … I …” She drops her face into her hands and shakes her head. “I’m so sorry. I’m still having trouble sleeping since the mess at La Lune Noire. I was leaving my music room and heard something, so I … it was a second … all I saw was Ainsley on the island and Gage with an orange Creamsicle.”

“Jesus Christ,” Wells hisses, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ve been eating those.”

“Sounds like another candy-apple debacle, Chief,” Liam croons, his dimple proudly making an appearance.

I don’t know what that means, but my imagination is colorful.

Wells points a warning finger at Liam and then at Gage. “Don’t fucking say it. I don’t want to know any—”

“Flavors,” Ty finishes with a stilted chuckle.

Liam bites into another pastry. “Personally, I thought they were good, even when I was questioning where the salt came from.”

Celeste blinks at him with a doe-eyed astonishment before glaring at Gage. “I really need you to walk me through the cleanup situation.”

“Thorough,” Gage promises her as my face heats. He, on the other hand, has no shame. “And no food was out.”

I nudge Rena. “That’s condensed milk that I salted and drizzled on yours and Liam’s. It’s not quite sex noises in the walls, but I played it up because I had a feeling you knew.”

Everyone loses it. Celeste nods appreciatively, so I think her panic has dissipated.

“Damn, girl. You’ve got some pranking skill,” Rena cheers before wagging her index finger. “But don’t use that shit on me.”

Ivy shakes her head, beaming. “Ruthless.”

“Flawless execution,” Liam commends me with an impressed twinkle in his eye before he looks at Rena. “Be on guard, Moonshine. Goldilocks ups our game.” He flicks his hand between Gage and me. “We might have to lock you two up during this new-love stage though. Who knew the Big Guy would be our exhibitionist?”

Gage pauses mid-bite. “Get the fuck outta here. You remember I stayed with you and Celeste in that cabin? You two were ridiculous. No goddamn texts. Once, you even forgot to shut the bedroom door. Flashed Rex and me.”

“Cabin,” I mumble while Gage catalogs all the showings of the other couples—a Vegas balcony, an Ohio obstacle course—but all I can focus on is the memory of a conversation that Nick had with Sonny, one of the other men in my father’s administration, whom I also killed.

It was a few days after that god-awful night with Tony and Theo, and Nick was pissed that Theo had taken off for a few weeks. Not even he knew where the land was for sure.

I clear my throat, blood flow swishing in my ears, pulse pounding. “Wells … Theo had a hunting cabin.”