Chapter 16 Cade #2
The nonchalant way he says it has me frowning, but before I can thoroughly chastise him for it, he’s pushing himself up and grabbing a towel. “I’ll clean this up so she doesn’t have to. There’s no reason she needs to see what we’ve been up to in here.”
I see the wince on his face when he bends down to grab another towel, and I swiftly wrap him up and carry him to bed.
“You won’t be cleaning anything up. You’re going to rest.”
“But—”
I silence him with a kiss. “No buts, unless it’s your butt.”
“That makes no sense.” He’s laughing now though, curling up under the covers, looking completely adorable.
“It makes perfect sense. You need to rest so I can have you again.”
His cheeks pinken, and he nods. “Yeah, that’s true. I do need to be in tip-top shape to be ready for that monster dick.”
I waggle my eyebrows and then strip off my pants, kicking them to the side. I move into the bathroom and make quick work of cleaning up the water and cum, draining the tub, and putting all dirty clothes and towels into the hamper.
I put on a change of clothes and grab Ansel’s cell phone, knowing I need to return it to Wylder before he loses his shit.
“Be right back,” I tell Ansel, but his eyes are closed and he’s already fast asleep.
That’s fine. My little butterfly needs to rest.
I end up working out with Samson and Dalton in the gym while Ansel naps.
After that, the three of us meet with Wylder in his office to get our assignments for the week.
He hands out little bits of paper, and we study them, making sure to mentally tally all the notes before tossing them in the fire.
Samson holds on to his—whatever is on there apparently takes a lot of studying. Either that or he’s hungover again.
“Harley and Matthias already have theirs. And no trading, please. I have a process, and I don’t want this fucked up. Cade, that means you.”
I pout, watching the edges of my paper curl as flames lick at the edges.
Much to my disappointment, mine is run-of-the-mill boring. No murder involved. Just a little roughing up. Maybe I’ll add in a missing kneecap or finger just for fun.
Whatever. It’s fine. I don’t want to be away from Ansel for too long anyway. I also don’t want to lie to him, and roughing someone up is a lot less intense than murder.
I will tell him the full scope of what we do eventually. When I can be sure it won’t scare him off.
Speaking of Ansel, I wonder if he’s still sleeping upstairs. He was when I went up to shower—didn’t even move when I slipped through the room to change.
My dick must have really worn him out. He did take it so good.
The thought has it perking up again. I want him endlessly, but I know I have to give him time to recover. From taking me hostage, to having my brothers show up, to taking my cock like some kind of porn star, Ansel has been through a lot.
Plus, game night is coming up, and I need him ready for what’s about to go down.
I continue watching the flames flicker, chewing at my bottom lip. I still need to talk to Ansel about who was behind the kidnapping in the first place. Even if I wasn’t the intended target, it still happened. Whatever they have on Ansel is serious enough for him to be worried about his life.
I need to find out what it is and who dared to threaten him. Honestly, I’m not sure what’s holding me back.
Maybe it’s because you won’t have an excuse to keep him here any longer once you’ve taken care of things. He might leave if he has no reason to stay.
I rub at the back of my neck. I don’t like the fact that those cunts who threatened him are still breathing, but I also don’t want Ansel to leave.
I just need a little more time to win Ansel over. It’s going great so far, but I need to be sure.
While he’s here, he’s safe. We have time. I don’t need to rush things.
Dalton takes his phone from his pocket and scowls at the screen. “Fuck.”
“Where you going?” Wylder asks as Dalton strides across the room.
Dalton’s already halfway out the door before he pokes his head back in. “Gonna go help Jackson with something. I guess it’s an emergency.”
I cock my head, and we all stare at him until he flips us off and walks out of the room, apparently on his way to help Wyatt’s little brother.
“He’s having the wool pulled over his eyes by a teenager,” Wylder says.
“He’s nineteen, but yeah, he is. Dalton’s not the brightest bulb,” I reply.
Samson stretches, his back cracking. “Gonna go and take care of this shit right now. Want to get it off my schedule. I have better things to do with my life than murder.”
I peer over at his assignment and sigh wistfully. “Trade ya?”
“What the fuck did I just say?” Wylder threatens.
He goes ignored.
Samson holds the paper to his chest and shakes his head. “Nope. After dinner last night, I need to murder someone. And this one deserves it.”
Wylder throws down his pen and runs his hands through his hair. “I get it. Last night was frustrating, and I’ve decided that Candace won’t be attending any more dinners. We’re taking some time apart. Possibly permanently.”
“Is she dead?” Samson’s lips almost curl up at the corner.
Wylder rolls his eyes. “No, she’s not dead. We can’t solve all of our problems with murder.”
There’s no mistaking the hopeful note in Samson’s voice. “Incapacitated, then? Maybe her lips fell off. And her teeth. Oh fuck, tell me it’s her limbs.”
Wylder gives Samson a flat glare. “We’re literally taking time apart. She’s not missing limbs or lips or teeth. But I realize she’s obviously not a good fit for the family.”
“She’s not.” I hum. “But Ansel is. Did you see him put her in her place?”
Samson shoves me. “We all did. Not everyone can get so lucky.”
Then he tosses his paper into the fire and stalks from the room.
It leaves just Wylder and me, our eyes meeting.
“You have something else to say?” he asks.
I shrug. “Nope. Just making sure you’re okay.”
Wylder leans back in his chair and toys with his pen. “As good as I can be.”
I want to say something else, something helpful, but I find that nothing really sounds that good, so I stick with something from the nineties. A true lyrical poem.
“Next time, stick with the rivers and streams. Don’t chase the damn waterfalls.”
He stares at me for a long thirty seconds. “Are you quoting a song to me?”
I shrug and pull up my phone, putting the song on and humming along as I exit.
Sure am, Brother. The nineties were a time of wisdom. He’d be smart to listen.