Chapter Nineteen
Juliet
Noah and Orion are still up when I walk in.
I’m buzzing. Still high from dinner with Elliot.
Everything about him was deliberate.
The way he held his fork. The way he read while eating. The way he indulged, but on his own terms. Tonight he had a crème br?lée for dessert.
I wonder what I will make him the first time I cook for him. Something classic, nothing childish. A single scoop of bourbon vanilla gelato? A perfectly plated dark chocolate torte with fresh raspberries? Yes. That one. Because he would never settle for store-bought crap.
I know he’s going to be a sir.
And I have always wanted one of them.
Noah catches my mood instantly. His eyes sweep over me, concerned but patient. Soft.
Orion? He kisses my forehead, solid, steady, grounding.
God, I love them.
But I don’t let them stew in worry. No point now. Not when I’m sure.
“You’re not going to believe what I’ve found,” I say, practically beaming.
Noah exhales long and slow. “Another?”
Orion just frowns, like he’s waiting for the catch.
I grin. “It was love at first sight, just like with you two. But he’s so different, you’re going to love him.”
Orion gives me a look like I’ve just said something confusing.
I place my hand on his chest, soothing, reassuring. “Don’t worry,” I murmur, tracing small circles over his heartbeat. “Not soon. This part takes time. And you’ll be ready by the time he is. I just know it.”
Orion’s brow furrows. “This part?”
Noah chuckles.
Sweet boy.
“Yeah,” Noah says, throwing Orion a knowing look. “The note-taking. The making sure the bastard doesn’t stand a chance when she jumps him.”
I laugh.
Noah knows me so well now.
“Who is it?” Orion asks, still trying to catch up.
“A therapist,” I say, unable to contain my delight. “Older than us. So refined. Thoughtful. That’s really all I know right now.”
I pause.
Then grin.
“Oh! And he’s new in town. Divorced. Newly divorced, but they filed years before it was finalized, so he’s probably already over her.” I wave my hand. “I’ll find out all of that, of course.”
Orion just stares. Processing. Recalculating. His jaw flexes. “And if we don’t like him?” he asks.
I blink.
Oh.
Oh, my love.
I smile and tilt my head.
“I have very good taste,” I murmur, pressing up on my toes to lick his neck.
His breath catches.
I love that sound.
“You didn’t know how close you and Noah would be,” I whisper. “Neither did he. But I did.”
Orion watches me closely. His hands skim down to my hips. “Do you need help?” he asks. “Scoping him out?”
Oh, my precious protector.
I melt.
“If I do,” I purr, “I’ll let you know.”
Then Noah moves in.
Pressing against my back.
Sandwiching me between the two most perfect men ever.
Warm. Solid. Mine.
I sigh.
“I love you,” I whisper.
And in perfect, beautiful unison, they reply, “We love you too.”
Orion and Noah are absolutely amazing while I figure Elliot out.
Supportive. Patient. Understanding.
Orion even studies him during the day while I’m stuck at work and Noah’s at the café. They take care of each other on nights I follow Elliot to dinner. God, I love them.
Elliot’s ex is nothing like me.
Eighteen years they were married. Eighteen. A lifetime. A whole fucking legal adult.
She’s elegant, all dark colors, high heels, and thigh-high hose. Polished. Sharp. Sleek.
I can work with that. They make heels and hose in white and pink.
He’s already had his high-powered executive type. His cold, calculated, “I-had-to-schedule-sex-two-weeks-in-advance” type.
He’s ready for something new. Warm. Soft.
He’s built more like Noah than Orion.
Which makes sense. Because let’s face it, a body like Orion’s is made in the gym. You don’t just happen to be born a beast.
Everything is going perfect.
And then? Suddenly, it’s not.
Orion isn’t waiting for me in the hall after class.
That’s wrong. That’s not how this works.
A coil of unease tightens in my stomach as I move toward the parking lot.
And then I see her.
That fucking lunatic.
Tammy.
She’s shouting at my Orion. Making a fucking spectacle.
Orion doesn’t like that. I can hear it in the low, rumbling growl of his voice. See it in the way his fists clench at his sides.
He’s pissed.
Good.
I move closer, assessing.
And then she touches him. Puts her hand on his arm.
Like she still has a fucking claim.
Like she hasn’t already been replaced.
Like she didn’t lose him the moment I decided he was mine.
And I can’t fucking think.
My vision tunnels.
Blood pounds in my ears.
I lunge. Snatch her wrist, bend her fingers back until she lets out a shrill, pathetic yelp.
“You’ll want to get your nasty hands off him,” I say. My voice is calm. Sweet.
But my grip?
I push it just to the edge of breaking. Right there. Let her feel it.
Tammy fucking wails. Drops to the ground like I clocked her.
Overdramatic whore.
She looks hideous like this, crumpled on the pavement, tears streaking through her cheap-ass mascara. Like a tragic little raccoon.
“Is this her?” she gasps, sniveling, pitiful.
I arch a brow.
Orion moves fast, stepping between us, pulling me behind him. “Get the fuck out of here before I call the cops and file a restraining order,” he snaps.
God.
That voice.
So firm. So final.
I shiver, but not from fear.
Tammy sniffles like a pathetic child and staggers to her feet. “This isn’t over, Ry.”
I go still.
Oh.
Oh.
She calls him Ry?
Like she still has that right?
My fingers twitch at my side.
She turns to me, eyes burning, and spits venom. “You,” she hisses. “Stay out of my house.”
I smile. Syrupy sweet and then I place my hand at Orion’s waist, tilting my head just slightly as I look up at him. “Who the fuck is she?” I ask.
I want her to hear it. I want her to burn in it.
Orion doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t even look at her. His voice is sharp. Cold. Brutal. “No one. A mistake.”
I purr, pressing closer, tracing my fingers just under the hem of his shirt.
That’s right, love. You’re mine.
And she? She never existed.
Later, I can’t sleep.
Even after Orion and Noah turned me boneless.
Even after three orgasms, a hot shower, and a sleepy, possessive cuddle pile.
There’s no way I can approach Elliot with that crazy bitch Tammy causing drama.
Elliot wouldn’t put up with drama. He’s mature. Sophisticated.
He probably meditates before bed and drinks herbal tea. He wouldn’t be caught dead shouting in a parking lot like some low-budget soap opera extra.
And I don’t blame him. I won’t put up with it either.
So…
I slip out of bed, toss on black jeans and a t-shirt, because nighttime research has a dress code. Blend in. Keep it low-key. Stay practical.
But I do swipe on some pink lipstick, because I have standards.
I’m about to commit a small, harmless, completely necessary act of violence.
That’s no reason to look like a hobo.
I swing by the local chain store, because even criminals have errands.
And Jesus Christ.
There’s a shocking amount of people here at this hour.
And every single one of them looks like they crawled out of a shallow grave.
What the fuck is happening in this town?
I swear to God, I just saw a grown man in a trench coat and pajama pants buying only mustard.
Only. Mustard.
I move fast.
I need something scary but reasonable.
A tire iron? Gross. It smells like metal and regret.
A knife? Too messy. Too personal.
And then?
As if guided by fate, I see it.
The perfect weapon.
Pink. Shiny.
A bat.
I pick it up, test the weight, give it a little swing.
It’s light, but effective.
If I swing hard enough, Tammy will get the point.
I toss a single glove in my cart too.
Not because I need it. But because it feels weird to buy just a bat.
Plus, they have one in pink.
A coordinated crime? Aesthetic violence?
Yes, please.
I don’t stop to browse. I refuse to be the kind of woman who gets distracted by discount candles while gearing up for a break-and-enter intimidation session.
I check out, get in my car, and drive to Tammy’s little shithole.
Her lights are on.
She’s awake.
I’m not shocked.
She keeps questionable hours.
Maybe she’s up all night scheming ways to suck Orion’s soul out through his dick.
I park across the street and walk up.
The door is unlocked.
I blink.
Seriously?
She must know the kind of neighborhood she lives in.
Or maybe she’s too stupid to live.
Either way…
I grip my bat, push the door open, and step inside.
Time for a little chat.
I close the door behind me. Polite. Considerate.
I may be about to beat the shit out of someone, but that’s no reason to be rude.
Tammy’s in the living room, flopped on her ratty couch, wearing a long t-shirt that barely qualifies as clothing.
No pajama pants.
No shorts.
No dignity.
What the hell did Orion ever see in her?
I mean, really?
I could maybe understand if she had some redeeming qualities.
But she’s got mascara-streaked cheeks, an empty bottle of wine, and the energy of a woman who still refers to her ex as “mine.”
Gross.
She jolts up when she sees me, staring hard, scanning the room like a trapped animal.
Her eyes land on her phone.
Predictable.
“The fuck?” she breathes, scrambling to her feet.
I lift the bat.
Casual. Relaxed. Like this is just a friendly neighborhood visit.
“Don’t be stupid, Tammy.”
She stiffens. “You’re insane,” she says, and then, bless her heart, she tries to run for the phone.
Me? I’m insane?
I swing.
The bat smashes into her cheap-ass phone, sending it flying.
Tammy gasps, clutching her now-empty hand like I just amputated it.
I roll my shoulders. “I was trying to be nice about this. Little notes on your mirror.” I pop the bat against my palm. “But apparently, you’re too dimwitted to read.”
She stares, and then she screams. “HELP! HELP!”
Oh.
Well, fuck.
That’s not good.
My brain stalls.
Because what now?
Breaking and entering? Fine.
Mild intimidation? Sure.
But getting arrested?
Absolutely not.
I can’t go to prison.
They don’t let you wear pink in prison.
I swing.
The bat connects with her head.
Hard.
It’s blessedly quiet for a second.
And then?
Another scream.
Fucking hell.
I swing again.
And again.
And again.
Until the screaming stops.
Until she stops.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
I stare down at her.
Not breathing.
Not moving.
I exhale through my nose.
“Well.” I tilt my head.
I guess she’ll keep her fucking hands off Orion now.
That’s a win.
No point standing around.
I turn, step over her, and walk out.
Closing the door.
Back in my car, I sit and watch.
The street is quiet.
Except a curtain moves a few houses down.
My pulse stays steady.
I wait.
Patient.
Controlled.
And when the curtain falls back into place?
I start my car, keep the lights off, and pull away.
No harm, no foul, no more drama.