Rafael
“Five bridesmaids,” Max said, ankle hooked casually over his knee. “Does she need all five?”
As long as the wedding moved forward, there was no ceiling on that statement. Five bridesmaids was nothing. He’d authorize a standing invitation for every woman who’d ever loaned her hand cream and sign it in blood if that’s what it took.
Laurent smiled faintly, scooping a handful of stones and distributing them lazily along the row, one soft click after another. “Do you even have five friends?”
“By my count, you’ve got four groomsmen,” Laurent continued. “Me, Max, Hunter, Charles. Who’s the fifth? Dao?”
Rafael snorted. Jaxon Dao was, regrettably, Bea’s friend. Not his. “Montenegro.”
Both men looked up.
“Cassian Montenegro?” Laurent paused mid-turn, one piece balanced between his fingers. “Out of a city full of men who owe you favors, you pick the one who doesn’t?”
Rafael slid the signed pages aside and reached for the next document. “He’s been part of this longer than you think.”
“How so?” Max asked.
“He noticed,” Rafael said. “Early.”
Laurent laughed under his breath and stood, crossing to the sideboard. “Mon frère, everyone noticed. Twice.”
“He was the only one who said it to my face.”
That made Laurent pause. He poured the cognac slowly. “So you’re rewarding him for harassing your fiancée.”
“Back then, it was about King,” Rafael said. “Not her.”
Max began dropping his circuit of stones methodically along the wooden cups. “She was still caught in it.”
Laurent handed him a glass.
Rafael reached out with his left hand, then pulled it back as the dull ache in his shoulder made itself known. He took it with his right. “Montenegro will stay in line.”
“Because you said so?”
“Because I’m not King. And he knows it.”
Laurent returned to the sofa just as Max’s final stone landed in an empty cup on his side. Max calmly collected the contents of the opposite one and filled up his store like a poker player pulling in a pot.
“I object to the spirit of that move.”
“Overruled.”
“You can’t advance the board while a player is hydrating.”
Max tapped the wooden edge of the board. “If a ten-minute game leaves you dehydrated, you should see a physician.”
Rafael shook his head, used to the bickering. He’d considered banishing the board to one of their offices, but here at least he could confirm they did some work between rounds.
The room was quiet. A moment later, the soft tap of stones resumed. He used the lull to sign off on Cain’s security plan. Additional bodyguard for Bea. More men at the beach estate, wider perimeter.
A fortress, by any other name. What he wanted to be for her. Fortresses kept people safe; they also kept people in. She hadn’t missed that part.
He glanced over just in time to see Max sweep what was left of the bounty.
Laurent swore in French. “How do you keep doing that? I’m a banker. Counting is supposed to be my job.”
“I’m a lawyer. All I need is an opening.” Max started resetting the pieces, because apparently one game wasn’t enough for these two clowns.
“So we’re going to Westhelm,” said Laurent.
“Does that mean she took it well?” Max asked. “I assume you’ve explained the marriage law.”
‘Well’ was doing a lot of work in that sentence.
Things had returned to pattern since his return: breakfast at her place, dinner at his.
But he was the one starting every touch.
She wanted him. That wasn’t the problem.
The problem was that whenever she felt it, she retreated.
Usually right before things became interesting.
Before, abstinence had been something they endured together. Now it felt like armor she wore alone.
Which meant things were not, strictly speaking, going well.
“She’s processing.” The sound of his own voice was enough to tell him Laurent had just been handed ammunition.
That man’s blue eyes lit with interest. “But she hasn’t said yes.”
“She already did. She’s engaged to me.”
“We both know that isn’t the only yes that matters.”
The silence stretched.
Rafael turned his attention back to the documents spread across his desk. The clean geometry of the titles and permits. Every page bore his name.
He heard her voice in his head.
Every time I think this place is home, I’m reminded it’s a cage.
He reached for a fresh sheet, and sat.
“Max,” he said, already writing, “draw up a transfer.”
“Of what, exactly?”
“The beach house,” Rafael replied.
“That’s an eight-figure asset.”
“I know.”
“And if you gift it before the ceremony,” Max continued, “it doesn’t revert under marriage law. Not automatically. Not ever, unless she chooses it.”
Rafael looked up. “I know.”
Laurent’s brows lifted, something like admiration flickering there. “You’re really doing it?”
Rafael didn’t bother confirming. They watched him sign.