Chapter 7 Wesley
Wesley
Ro laced his fingers together on the table and said, “Everyone, welcome to the first official family game night.”
Lane cheered, ever the cheerleader for my husband.
Greyson watched with a quiet satisfaction before pushing off the wall and taking the seat at the head of the table. He held out a hand towards Lane.
“Come here, princess.”
Lane smiled demurely, then rose from the seat on the other side of Ro. His low kitten heels clacked against the hardwood floor as he went to join Greyson.
When Lane took his husband’s outstretched hand, he was tugged forward onto his lap. He giggled softly, pressed a chaste kiss to Grey’s cheek, then repositioned himself so that he sat facing the table but was still curled into Greyson’s side.
I shook my head lightheartedly, still amazed at the strange way they interacted. Although I supposed it was a better dynamic than whatever the twins had with poor Oliver.
God. Never had I ever expected any of them to find a long-term partner, let alone fucking marry them.
To be fair, I hadn’t really expected it for myself either.
I turned my head to the side, really taking in my own husband.
My heart felt so full when I saw him like this. He was radiant.
You could tell just by the look on his face how much he loved spending time with the whole group together like this. I certainly hadn’t expected him to have this side to him when we first met.
When we first met, Ronan had been many things.
Controlled. Restrictive. Lethal. Terrifying—to the men he slaughtered.
A beautiful, dangerous thing I’d been half-convinced would cut his own throat before letting anyone get close.
There had been something so tightly contained about him back then, like every inch of him had been trained to take up as little space as possible unless violence or seduction was required.
And underneath his shiny exterior had been someone living with one foot in death and one in life, drowning in the deepest, darkest lake, with no hope he’d ever get a breath of air again.
Now he was sitting at the dining table of our home, hosting a fucking game night like a suburban dad—complete with snacks and mostly enthusiastic guests.
The difference still caught me off guard sometimes.
I watched him as he leaned forward, elbows on the table, those otherworldly eyes bright with excitement as he looked around at everyone.
My nephews.
Their husbands.
Their friends.
Their chaos.
Our family.
His family.
He loved this. Loved them.
Across the table, Hudson tapped his fingers impatiently against the wood. “Uncle Rooooo,” he said, dragging the word out like a bored child. “We’d all like to get started now.”
Hayes nodded once in agreement.
Oliver shifted quietly on the floor between them, leaning a little more into Hayes’s leg as if bracing himself for whatever came next. His hands rested loosely in his lap, fingers twisting slightly in the hem of his oversized cardigan.
He didn’t look frightened, just resigned.
Josh noticed it too.
He cleared his throat softly from where he still stood near the doorway. “Before we start,” he said carefully, “can someone maybe take the tape off their mouths?”
One of the accountants let out a desperate, muffled noise of agreement.
Hudson leaned forward in his chair. “Oh, absolutely fucking not.”
“Hudson,” I warned.
He whined, reminding me of earlier times, “But they’ll scream.”
“They’re already crying,” Lane pointed out mildly from Greyson’s lap.
“That’s different,” Hudson sighed. “Crying is quiet. Screaming is loud. I already have a headache just from imagining it.”
Greyson rested his chin against Lane’s temple, watching the accountants with that analytical look he’d inherited from his father. “They’re not going anywhere,” he decided. “Let them talk.”
Ronan tilted his head thoughtfully. Across from him, the hyperventilating accountant made a hopeful choking sound.
Ro looked at him, then he smiled. “Alright.”
Both men visibly sagged in relief.
“Lane?” Ronan called.
“Hmm?”
“You have the gentlest hands,” Ro said sweetly. “Would you mind?”
Lane slid gracefully off Greyson’s lap. “Of course.”
Greyson watched him go with the kind of fond patience that made me think maybe I hadn’t been a completely terrible role model.
Lane walked around the table and crouched beside the first accountant like he was helping a nervous patient instead of a kidnapping victim. “Okay,” he murmured kindly. “Don’t scream.” He peeled the tape off in one smooth motion.
The man sucked in a huge breath—
—and immediately began shouting.
“Please—”
Hudson sighed as Hayes moved faster than most people could track. His hand shot across the table and closed around the man’s throat.
The room fell silent as the man’s eyes widened in sheer panic.
Hayes smiled pleasantly, speaking sharply through his teeth, “Stop fucking screaming, or I’ll shatter your goddamn windpipe. Got it?”
The accountant nodded frantically.
Hayes released him.
Lane patted the man’s shoulder. “See? That went well.”
He moved to the second accountant.
Behind me, I heard Josh whisper under his breath. “This is insane…”
Dorian’s voice answered quietly, “Yes.”
There was a short pause before Josh asked, “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Dorian didn’t even try to deny it. “Yes.”
I scrubbed a hand over my face.
“So, should I take the tape off this one too or…?” Lane questioned the room.
Hayes answered, “Please don’t.”
Lane’s eyebrows raised. “Wow, you’re capable of using ‘please’?”
Hayes leveled a bored look at him, then turned to ask my husband, “What games are we playing?”
Ro smirked. “I know we’re all very excited, but let me introduce you to our…
game pieces? Party favors?” He tapped his fingers against the table, then pointed to the one who’d just yelled.
“That is Jeremiah DeLeone. He’s forty-two, and on his third wife.
He not only scams his elderly clientele out of thousands, but he’s also been reported to HR a million and one times for workplace sexual harassment of the young female interns.
Not that those complaints ever go anywhere.
” Ro sighed, looking down his nose at the man.
Pointing at the second man, he continued, “This is Mills Stanley. Thirty-four. Not affiliated with DeLeone’s firm.
They just happen to both be accountants.
I didn’t actually plan it that way. Mills was a trust fund brat who used his rich white kid status to weasel his way out of three separate rape charges back in college.
And I highly doubt that those were his only victims. Once a rapist, always a fucking rapist.”
Lane grunted his agreement from where he’d returned to sit on Grey’s lap.
“Now,” Ronan said, “as for the games.”
Hudson leaned forward eagerly. “Yes. Finally.”
Ronan held up one elegant finger. “Game one,” he announced, “is Pin the Tail on the Donkey.”
Half the room appeared confused, while half of them grinned.
Josh spoke up first. “Um… like the kids’ party game?”
Ro laughed, then pushed back from the table and stood, gesturing for everyone to follow. “Mostly. Come see.”
Curiosity—or bloodlust—won out quickly.
Chairs scraped across the floor as everyone stood.
Even Oliver rose from between the twins, brushing off imaginary dust from his cardigan before trailing along beside them.
We all followed Ronan into the adjoining living room, where he’d hung a large foam board on the wall. Several paper “tails” sat neatly on a side table beside a stack of blindfolds.
Lane clasped his hands together. “Oh my god,” he whispered, delighted. “Yesss!”
Greyson huffed out a quiet laugh into his hair.
Ronan leaned casually against the table. “The rules are simple,” he said. “Each player gets blindfolded. You’ll be spun around a few times, then you must attempt to pin the tail as close as possible to the donkey’s… tail region.”
Hayes tilted his head. “What happens to them while we do this?”
“They’ll both be standing against the board. The foam is so that if someone somehow misses, our walls won’t be ruined.”
There was a beat of silence, then Hudson started laughing. “Oh, that’s so good. God. Truly, we do not deserve you, Ronan.”
Josh looked horrified. “You’re going to let them stab them while blindfolded?!”
“They’re paper tails,” Ronan said patiently, blowing out a breath.
“They’re attached to knives!”
Ronan rolled his eyes, starting to look a bit fed up with Josh’s complaints. “Small knives, Josh. I love you—I really do, but maybe it would be better for you to sit this out?”
Dorian shook his head and gripped Josh’s shoulder hard. “We’ll be right back.”
He steered him toward the hallway with a firm hand between his shoulder blades, guiding him out of the living room like a parent escorting out a misbehaving child. Josh went stiffly, the muscles in his back clearly tensed.
Right before they turned into the hallway, Dorian said over his shoulder, “Please don’t start without us. It’ll be just a minute.”
Then they were gone.
A few seconds later, it sounded like someone had been slammed against a wall.
As a collective unit, everyone in the room leaned slightly toward the doorway.
From the hallway came Josh’s voice, already rising. “Babe, you know I already struggle with just knowing you hurt people. I don’t want to have to experience it. Please, let’s just go home.”
Dorian’s voice was much quieter. Which, unfortunately, meant we all had to lean farther to hear him.
In a hissed whisper, he threatened, “You’re going to go back in there and keep your mouth shut, or I swear I’ll fucking bend you over that table and make you come sobbing like the little whore boy you are in front of everyone here. ”
“Damn,” Hudson mouthed.
“But—” Josh’s whine was cut off suddenly, a choked breath of air rushing from his lungs.
“Get on your knees.”
“What?!”
Dorian repeated coldly, “Get. On. Your. Knees.”
There was a pause, then a thud.
“Okay, uh, I don’t think we should be listening to this,” I whispered to the group.