Chapter 24
KINGMANS GO TO WAR
ARTEMIS
Monday morning in our house looked like a Kingman family explosion.
There were brothers sprawled on every available surface.
Chris was asleep on one side of the L-shaped couch with Isak on the other.
Declan had claimed the floor with just a pillow and Vinnie curled up on his chest. Everyone else was spread out across the rooms, and thank goodness I’d ordered all those throw pillows.
Over at Flynn and Tempest’s we had a girls only slumber party. Jules even stayed.
One text from Gryff saying Bridger was making pancakes had us all standing back in my kitchen waiting not so patiently for his fluffy flapjacks of fun.
This must have been what it was like for Gryff growing up.
The beautiful chaos of never being alone. Always having someone to catch you when you fall. Never questioning if you belonged because of course you did. You were family.
“More tea, baby?” Gryff appeared beside me with the pot, looking surprisingly rested for someone who'd slept on the floor of his own bedroom because his brothers had claimed the bed.
“Always.” I held out my mug. “Is it always like this?”
“Like what?”
“Your entire family mobilizing like an army when someone needs help?”
He grinned. “Pretty much. You should've seen when the press and paparazzi showed up for Trixie and Chris. I'm pretty sure Dad was ready to commit crimes.”
“Speaking of family...” I nodded toward the kitchen table where Xander sat with his father, both nursing coffee in companionable silence that felt new and fragile.
Mr. Rosemount was saying something quietly, and I caught the words “proud” and “brave.” Xander's eyes were suspiciously bright.
“I wish you'd trusted me,” Mr. Rosemount said, just loud enough for us to hear.
“I wish Mom had let me,” Xander replied, and his father's face darkened.
“We're going to have a conversation, your mother and I. A long overdue one.”
Willa appeared, dropping into the chair beside her brother. “I call first dibs on that conversation. I have some things to say about keeping siblings apart.”
“We were never apart,” Xander protested.
“We were,” Willa said firmly. “You were hiding a whole piece of yourself. That's a kind of distance just like me running off to Europe and Asia, Xan.”
Before he could respond, Liam and George joined them, George's hand landing on Xander's shoulder.
“Flight's at noon,” George said. “But we'll be reachable every second until this is handled.”
“You don't have to—“
“Kiddo,” Liam interrupted. “We have years of guncle-ing to make up for. You're stuck with us now.”
Xander's composure finally cracked. He pulled both his uncles into a hug that looked like it might never end.
“I used to watch you both,” he admitted, voice muffled. “Like at your wedding. And I'd think 'they're so amazing' and wish I could be like you. But Mom said—“
“Carin said a lot of things,” Mr. Rosemount interrupted, his voice hard. “Most of them wrong, all of them designed to control you both.”
Willa snorted. “That's the understatement of the century.”
“I should have protected you better,” Mr. Rosemount continued. “Both of you. When I found out what she'd been doing to Willa, I should have realized she was damaging you too, just differently.”
“Dad—“ Xander started.
“No. I let you convince me to let you take her with you to Miami. You shouldn't have to be managing her along with your career.”
“She's settled in her condo,” Xander said weakly. “She's fine.”
“You're paying for it with money you earned while being blackmailed,” Willa pointed out. “That's not fine.”
“She's still our mother.”
“Who told you that being like your uncles would ruin your life,” Liam said flatly. “That's not a mother. That's a warden.”
The morning became a blur of departures. The Mustangs brothers had to get back for practice. Kelsey's plane would take the Denver contingent home. Xander and his dad were flying back to Miami.
“Remember,” Kelsey said, pulling Gryff and Flynn into a hug. “Document everything. Every interaction with Sloane, every threat, every conversation. We're building a case.”
“I'm staying a couple more days,” Bridger announced. “I've got some calls to make. Coaches who might know these other players, get us contact information.”
“I'm staying too,” Penelope added, already pulling out her tablet. “Someone needs to coordinate this properly, and no offense, but athletes are better at executing a plan than planning the plan.”
“Offensive but accurate,” Flynn admitted.
Gryff and Flynn got ready to leave for practice, both tense about having to face Sloane.
“She's going to be there filming like nothing happened,” Gryff had said, jaw clenched.
“You have to act normal,” I'd reminded him. “We can't tip her off that we're organizing.”
“Flynn's going to punch her.”
“Flynn's going to be perfect,” I said firmly. “Because he knows what's at stake.”
By noon, the house felt eerily quiet with just me, Penelope, and Bridger.
My phone buzzed with texts from Gryff throughout the afternoon.
GRYFF
She's here. Acting like nothing happened.
She asked about Edinburgh. I almost threw up.
Flynn just told her to go film someone else. Coach made him run laps.
Harry looks uncomfortable. Keeps avoiding eye contact with her.
Meanwhile, Bridger was working his coaching network from our dining table, his phone constantly at his ear.
“Tom? Yeah, it's Bridge. Listen, I need a favor. You remember that linebacker you coached at Oregon State that got drafted to the Bruins? I need his number. It's important.”
Penelope had transformed our living room into a command center, laptop open, multiple spreadsheets running.
“Okay,” she said, “we have seven confirmed players being threatened. Gryff knows three personally. Bridger's got connections to two more. That leaves two we need to reach.”
By the time Gryff and Flynn returned from practice, we had contact information for six of the seven players.
“How was it?” I asked.
“Brutal,” Flynn said. “She kept trying to get reaction shots. Asked about why our family was in town. I hate that she somehow knew that. We’re going to have to be very careful.
Gryff collapsed on the couch. Holly immediately claimed his lap, still punishing him for leaving her all day. “DeMarcus kept running interference, distracting Sloane whenever she got too close.”
“He's a good captain,” Flynn said. “Protects his rookies.”
“Harry definitely knows something,” Gryff added. “He wouldn't look at Sloane, and he kept apologizing to me. Just randomly saying sorry when she wasn't around.”
“You think he'd help us?” I asked.
“Maybe. He seems like a decent guy who got caught up in something he didn't sign up for.”
Gryff's phone buzzed with another text from one of the threatened players. He'd been fielding messages all day, even during practice.
“Tyler from the Chefs,” he said, reading. “He wants to know if we're sure this will work.”
“What are you telling them?”
“The truth. That I don't know but doing nothing definitely won't work.”
On Monday night, after everyone left, Bridger and Penelope over at Flynn and Tempest’s for their well-appointed guest rooms, and the calls were done, the house felt too quiet. Gryff found me in the kitchen, washing dishes from the chaos of the day.
“Hi,” he said, wrapping his arms around me from behind.
“Hi yourself.”
“Today was...” he trailed off, pressing his face into my neck.
“I know.”
We stood there for a moment, him holding me while I had soapy hands, and it struck me how normal this felt already. How right. Three weeks since Edinburgh and I couldn't imagine not having this.
“I can't stop thinking about Edinburgh,” he murmured against my skin.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Even with all this chaos, I keep thinking about that hotel room. About you choosing me. About how you felt—“
I turned in his arms, sudsy hands and all. “How I felt?”
“Perfect. You felt perfect.”
The kiss was inevitable, deep and claiming. My wet hands fisted in his shirt, his hands sliding under mine to hold me around the waist.
Vincent bleated loudly from the doorway, either offended by the display, or approving. I wasn’t quite sure
“Your son is judging us,” Gryff said against my mouth.
“He's going to have to get used to it.”
Tuesday, I woke up to Gryff pressing kisses along my shoulder, his hand splayed possessively across me, one hand cupping my breast like he was staking claim to it.
“I have to go to practice,” I mumbled into the pillow.
“Five more minutes.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“And I'll say it again in five minutes.”
I turned to face him, and the look in his eyes made my stomach flip. “We're in the middle of a crisis.”
“I know. But you're also right here, in my bed, wearing my shirt, and I just...” He traced a finger along my jaw. “I can't believe I get to have this.”
“Even with everything falling apart?”
“Especially with everything falling apart. You're what makes it bearable.”
I kissed him softly. “You know people think you're going to propose soon.”
He went very still. “People? What people?”
“Crazy, right?”
“Completely crazy,” he agreed, but something in his eyes made me wonder.
“I really do have to go to practice,” I said. “Coach Maher is already worried about the documentary stuff. I can't be late.”
“How are you going to explain being this happy when you're supposed to be stressed about Sloane?”
“I'll tell her the truth. That my boyfriend makes everything better, even disasters.”
The smile that spread across his face was worth being late.
The coalition building started in earnest after I got back from practice. Gryff spent the morning on video calls with players, each conversation following a similar pattern, disbelief, fear, anger, and finally, relief at not being alone.
“We stand together,” he kept saying. “She can't take us all down if we refuse to let her.”
I watched him work, this man who'd been the safe harbor for so many scared athletes. He knew exactly what to say because he'd been there.