Chapter Sixteen #2
There are worse men who could come looking.
The elevator doors slide open with a quiet chime, and we step inside, mirrors rising up on every side to reflect us back at ourselves, and I catch sight of the three of us together in the glass—Chace standing tall and watchful, Seraphina vibrant by my side, and me, somewhere between the two, looking more like a man with something to lose than I ever have before.
I pull her closer without thinking, my arm settling around her shoulders, my hand resting against her upper arm as though it has always belonged there, as though it always will.
Chace’s phone vibrates in his hand, the sound soft but enough to pull my attention, and I watch the moment he reads whatever message has come through, watch the subtle easing of his posture, the way some invisible tension drains out of him before he lifts his eyes to mine and gives me a small, confirming nod.
Security is in place.
I lace my fingers more securely with hers just as the elevator doors open again, and she steps forward immediately, her grip tightening as she pulls me with her, not waiting, not hesitating, but moving with a quiet eagerness that sends something dangerously close to emotion crawling up my throat.
She leads me.
Not the other way around.
Maybe I am a little slower…
Think there are arguments to say, to suggest that I have always been slow.
Quick witted though, bee-oo-tch.
Attaboy, can’t balance a cheque book for shit, but you can quip like one of those sassy old bastards from The Muppets.
I don’t think I have a cheque book?
Shut up…
She leads me down the corridor like someone rediscovering the world one step at a time, her face lit with open wonder, her eyes wide as they move over everything—the lights, the space, the simple, ordinary freedom of it—and I find myself watching her instead of where we’re going, memorizing the expression, committing it to whatever part of me keeps the things I can’t afford to forget.
I can’t help the smile on my face, and the minute she turns around, my eyes are on her ass, because that dress clings to every inch of her like it was made for her and her alone.
My little angel, built for sinning. All I can think, with a certainty that lives in my bones, is that I want to feed her every inch of me.
My stupid cock stirs, like an old dog sniffing bacon.
The restaurant is all polished glass and low morning light, the kind of quiet, expensive calm that exists to convince people they are safe, and I position myself beside Seraphina with instinctive precision, my chair angled just enough that I can see both her and the room beyond, while Chace takes the seat opposite, his posture loose but his eyes alert, giving himself the advantage of the wider view.
A waitress appears and pours coffee for us, her smile professional and fleeting, and I thank her absently before my attention drifts back to my wife, because she is sitting there with her hand turned slightly under the light, her fingers twisting slowly as she watches the diamond catch and fracture the morning sun, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and awe, like she still hasn’t accepted that something so beautiful belongs to her.
I don’t think she realizes that I’m watching her instead.
That I would always choose watching her.
That I would always choose her. We’ve just finished breakfast, the kind that stretches out longer than it should, where nobody’s in a rush to leave because for once nothing is actively on fire.
I’m still half-leaned back in my chair, Sera close enough that I can feel her beside me, when I notice a woman approaching the table.
“Valentino. I would recognize the boy who broke the head off my Barbie and threw me out of his treehouse anywhere.”
The voice cuts cleanly across the moment.
I pause with my coffee halfway to my mouth, my brows lifting as I glance toward Chace, already seeing the shift in him, the way his attention sharpens, the way his eyes find the woman standing just beside our table.Chace lowers his cup slowly, his mouth curving into something that almost resembles surprise.
It’s a look I have not seen all that much from by brother from another mother, he looked almost… unsure?
“Elena.”
He says her name easily.
Familiar. Elena stands just over five-six, the kind of height that’s noticeable without being intimidating, early twenties but carrying herself with the precision of someone much older, someone who’s learned quickly how to be seen and remembered.
Her skin is bronze, the kind that looks like it’s always kissed by the sun, warm and rich, the kind that makes every shadow a little deeper, every highlight catch like fire.
Dark hair falls straight and heavy down her back, the kind that gleams in any light, framing a face with sharp, deliberate features—dark, calculating eyes rimmed by impossibly long lashes that could almost distract from the tension coiled behind them.
Slim, taut, but with curves that read lethal in the right light, she wears a white dress that hugs every line of her body, falling just to her knees, simple and elegant, but impossibly controlled in its power.
Layered gold necklaces catch the sun’s reflection along her collarbone, gold rings glint on her fingers, a quiet shimmer that hints at wealth and authority and a life where nothing is given and everything is claimed.
She moves with precision, her posture perfect, her gaze always measuring, always aware.
This is a woman born to be seen, born to command attention, born to remind you that even beauty can carry the weight of danger. “What brings you to Las Vegas?” Elena asks.
“Business,” he adds smoothly. “And if I recall, your baby sister was bleeding and you—”
She laughs, the sound warm and unapologetic.
“Yes, yes. Anastasia was crying. I was the villain.”
“Exactly.”
He leans back in his chair, studying her with open casualness, but I know him well enough to recognize the calculation beneath it, the quiet assessment of threat and value and memory all happening at once.
“Elena!” A younger voice interrupts, and a girl appears at Elena’s side, all sharp, nervous energy.
She’s slim and athletic, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail that swings with every step, dark and glossy, practical but polished, the kind of style that says she’s ready for anything without needing to announce it.
Her cheerleader uniform clings in all the right ways for agility rather than display, the team colors painted boldly across her cheeks in streaks of pride, the emblem stitched across her chest, and her stance carries a quiet confidence, the subtle tilt of her shoulders and the lift of her chin marking her as someone who’s learned early how to be seen and counted. “Please tell me you have my phone.”
Elena sighs, already reaching into her bag.
“Yes, Anastasia, and if you text that boy back, I’ll tell Father.”
The effect is immediate.
The girl pales.
Fear.
Real fear.
“You don’t want to anger him, Ana,” Elena continues lightly, before gesturing toward Chace. “Do you remember Valentino?”
Anastasia’s eyes lift.
“Ana is eighteen today,” Elena adds.
The silence stretches.
It grows teeth.
Because Anastasia isn’t looking at her sister anymore.
She’s looking at Chace...and Chace…
Christ. What the fuck do we have here? Chace is fucking. Eating. Her. Up.
The silence stretches. The seconds become uncomfortable.
Seraphina shifts beside me, and I feel her discomfort like it lives inside my own body, her hand finding my thigh beneath the table.
“Happy birthday!” Sera says suddenly. The stare off continues. The silence stretches.
I kick Chace under the table.
Hard.
He clears his throat, the spell breaking.
“Happy birthday, Anastasia. I hope you enjoy your day.”
She keeps staring.
“Ana,” Elena hisses, nudging her sharply.
Anastasia startles.
“Right. Yes. Thank you. I—my team is waiting.”
Then she’s gone.
Running.
Fleeing.
Is she scared of big, bad Chace?
Or—fuck—Valentino?
Shit. I should’ve been called that. I was born on the damn day, after all.
Elena laughs.
“Teenagers.”
Chace gives her a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“It was nice seeing you again, Elena.”
Dismissal.
She takes the hint.
Leaves.
The moment she’s gone, the air shifts.
Seraphina’s hand tightens slightly on my thigh.
I turn to her immediately, lifting my hand to her face, my fingers sliding beneath her chin, guiding her to look at me.
Her eyes search mine.
Uncertain.
“It’s okay,” I murmur against her lips.
Then I kiss her.
I kiss her until I feel her soften, until I feel the tension leave her body, until I feel her melt back into herself and into me, until the world narrows back down to what matters.
Her.
When I pull away, her breathing is slower.
Her eyes clearer.
When I glance up, Chace is watching us over the rim of his coffee cup with something dangerously close to amusement.
“So…I should probably tell you…you have about fifteen seconds before you get your ass handed to you by a very, very pissed off blonde. Ten. Nine. Eight.”
Seraphina pales beside me.
“Baby, I would never—” I start.
Nah—she’s fresh as a daisy.
And just as freshly fucked, so I know I’m in her good books.
Pissed-off blondes…
Yeah, there could be a few.
There was that one—I tapped out halfway through, spat on her lower back, told her I was done because she kept making these weird noises.
It got distracting.
Like—are we doing this right now, or am I watching Animal Planet?
“I hate you, Trey Baker…”
Uh-oh, I recognize that tone.
Say something cute before she shanks us with a breakfast fork.
My head whips around.
“Macaroni.”
Well, shit, that failed.
“You die. Both my brothers! DEAD! Then you end up in hospital. Un-fucking-conscious. And you leave me. Without a word!”
“I… I got better?”
Her voice cracks, and Logan flinches behind her, shooting me a glare I can’t meet. Sam steps forward, leaning to kiss Sera’s cheek, whispering something I can’t hear, but it doesn’t matter.
Abort, abort cute protocol… she is upset and we are not cool with that.
Activate groveling…
The moment I study her, feeling Sera’s reassuring presence beside me, I let out a sad little sigh.
I can’t move.
I can’t speak.
There isn’t really anything I can say to defend myself. She’s fucking family.
Because I did leave her.
Mac is like a sister. She’s always been like a sister. And I left her. Without a word.
I wasn’t there. I left her in chaos, in fear, in the aftermath of what I caused. I should have called. I should have warned her. And I didn’t.
The guilt coils through me, tight, insistent, unrelenting, because I know she feels it too. She trusted me, and I disappeared. And Seraphina…
She’s here now, watching the exchange, still trembling, and I feel that tight knot in my chest twist sharper. Because I love her. Because she is mine. Because she’ll always be mine. And she’ll always come first.
But Mac…Mac is family. Not the kind unchosen by the red stuff that keeps your heart beating, but something more. And… And I failed her. I promised her I’d never leave her alone after Braden died.
I mean she kinda left us…
SHUT THE FUCK UP, DO YOU WANT HER TO FUCKING KILL US?
“Mac…” I whisper, voice low, raw, because I don’t know what else to say. Because any apology I can give will never be enough. She stands there, sneer in place, Logan ready to back her if she decides to throw hands.
Say something.
I swallow. Hard.