Chapter 37 Cal
CAL
The position Jace chose is perfect—tactically sound, as always. We’re near one of the marble columns at the top of the grand staircase, elevated enough to see everyone who arrives, positioned so we can observe the main gallery below without being obvious about it.
We look like what we are: three of Charles Carter’s men, dressed in tuxedos that cost more than most people’s monthly rent, attending a charity gala to maintain appearances and make connections. Professional. Polished. Completely unremarkable.
Except I haven’t been able to focus on a single conversation or observation for the past twenty minutes because I keep watching the entrance, waiting for her to arrive.
“You’re going to wear a hole in the floor,” Silas mutters from my left, his storm-grey eyes tracking a state senator’s wife as she descends the stairs with her considerably younger date.
“I’m observing,” I say.
“You’re obsessing,” Jace corrects from my right, his voice low enough that no one else could hear. “And you need to get it together before she gets here.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine.” Silas shifts his weight, the movement subtle but enough to draw my attention. “You’ve been a fucking wreck for two days. We both have.”
He’s not wrong. Ever since Parker took those DNA samples in the gym—just walked up to us, demanded we open our mouths, and claimed control of the one thing we’d been investigating behind her back—I haven’t been able to think straight.
The samples are being processed right now. Somewhere, a lab tech is running tests that will confirm what we already know: that Noah and Liam belong to two of us. That Parker’s children—our children—have two different fathers.
And we won’t know the results until she decides to tell us.
If she decides to tell us.
“She might not tell us at all,” I say quietly, voicing the fear that’s been eating at me. “She might keep the results to herself. Punish us for not trusting her by withholding the one thing we want to know.”
“She won’t,” Jace says, but there’s uncertainty in his voice that wasn’t there before.
“How do you know?”
“Because she wouldn’t have taken the samples if she didn’t plan to use them.” Silas’s logic is sound, even if I don’t want to believe it. “She’s making a point. Taking control. But she’s not cruel. She’ll tell us.”
“When she’s ready,” Jace adds. “On her terms.”
Which could be tonight. Or next week. Or never.
I force myself to focus on the task at hand.
Charles sent us here to observe, to make note of which families are talking to which, to watch for alliances being formed or tensions building.
It’s the kind of work we’ve been doing for years—reading rooms, cataloging connections, building the intelligence network that keeps the Carter organization ahead of threats.
Usually, I’m good at this. Better than good. I can track six conversations simultaneously, remember names and faces, notice the small tells that indicate when someone’s lying or planning something.
Tonight, I can barely remember why we’re here.
“Senator Morrison is talking to the Castellano underboss,” Jace observes, his tactical mind still functioning even if mine isn’t. “Third time they’ve spoken tonight.”
“The Castellanos are trying to expand into our territory,” Silas adds. “Using political connections to smooth the way.”
“We should tell Charles,” I say automatically, pulling out my phone to make a note.
And that’s when I see her.
Parker, at the top of the entrance stairs, being helped out of a long black coat by Ryan Matthews.
For a second, I don’t process what I’m seeing. Just register her presence—Parker is here, she’s arrived, she’s—
Then the coat comes off.
Storm grey.
The gown is storm grey silk that moves like liquid shadow, fitted at the bodice before flowing into a skirt that shifts with every breath she takes. It’s elegant and devastating and completely—
Steel blue.
The accents. Threading through the bodice in patterns that look like Damascus steel, catching the light with every movement. Swirling and dangerous and exactly the color of—
Amber.
Beads along the neckline and hem, glowing warm against her pale skin, catching candlelight like drops of whiskey, like honey, like—
Oh fuck.
My eyes. Silas’s eyes. Jace’s eyes.
She’s wearing our colors.
All three of us, woven into fabric and thread and deliberate choice, visible to everyone in this room but understood by exactly four people.
“Holy shit,” I breathe.
Beside me, Jace has gone completely still. The kind of still that usually precedes violence, except his hands aren’t moving toward weapons—they’re clenched at his sides like he’s physically restraining himself from crossing the distance and putting them on her.
Silas makes a sound low in his chest—satisfaction mixed with possession mixed with something that might be pride.
She planned this. The fitting with Sienna, the careful choice of colors, the way she’s standing at the top of those stairs like she owns the entire fucking room.
This is her message. Her claim. Her response to our doubt.
I’m yours. Even when I’m angry. Even when you fucked up. Even when I’m on another man’s arm.
Ryan says something to her, offering his arm. She takes it—she has to, she agreed to this, Charles arranged it—but her eyes aren’t on Ryan.
They’re on us.
Storm-grey silk shifts as she moves. Steel-blue accents catch the light. Amber beads glow against her throat.
Our colors.
She’s wearing our fucking colors while Ryan Matthews touches her like he has the right.
“I’m going to kill him,” Silas says conversationally.
“Get in line,” Jace mutters.
Parker starts down the staircase, and I watch every step. The way the gown moves around her legs. The way her hand rests lightly on Ryan’s arm—polite, professional, nothing more. The way her posture is perfect, her expression pleasant, everything about her screaming Carter breeding and elegance.
Except for the dress.
The dress screams mine.
She reaches the bottom of the stairs and Ryan guides her into the crowd. His hand moves to the small of her back—possessive, proprietary, exactly the kind of touch that photographs well and means absolutely nothing to her.
I can see it in her body language. The subtle stiffness. The way she’s angled slightly away from him. The polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
She’s tolerating him.
But she’s wearing us.
“We need to maintain composure,” Jace says, his voice tight with the effort of following his own advice. “We’re here to work. To observe. Charles is watching, and if we—”
“If we what?” I interrupt. “If we lose our shit watching another man touch her while she’s wearing our colors like a brand? While she’s sending a message we can’t acknowledge in public?”
“Yes.” Jace’s jaw is clenched so tight I’m surprised his teeth don’t crack. “Exactly that.”
Ryan introduces Parker to someone—an older woman in diamonds, probably one of the old guard families. Parker smiles, extends her hand, plays the role perfectly. The woman says something that makes Parker laugh, a sound I can hear even from this distance because I’m that attuned to her.
Ryan’s hand hasn’t left her back.
“Two days,” Silas says quietly. “We haven’t spoken to her in two days except for logistics about tonight. She’s been avoiding us.”
“Can you blame her?” The words taste bitter. “We doubted her. Investigated her. Let Charles manipulate us into thinking Ryan fucking Matthews might be the father of her children.”
“We apologized,” Jace points out.
“Did we?” I turn to look at him. “Or did we just say we fucked up and hope that would be enough?”
Jace doesn’t answer. Because we both know I’m right. We acknowledged the mistake, but we haven’t actually fixed anything. Haven’t proven we learned from it. Haven’t shown her we can be what she needs.
And now she’s down there, on another man’s arm, wearing our colors like armor, and we can’t do a fucking thing about it.
Parker moves through the crowd with Ryan at her side, making connections, charming donors, playing her role as Charles’s sister and the Carter family’s new strategist. She’s good at this—better than she probably wants to be.
Reading people, knowing exactly what to say, when to laugh, when to look interested.
I catalogue it all. Every conversation. Every person she meets. The way Ryan positions himself as her date, introducing her as “my date for the evening” instead of just by name. The way older men look at her with interest that’s a little too sharp. The way their wives assess her like competition.
Parker handles it all with grace and steel in equal measure.
But every few minutes, her eyes find us. Just for a second. Just long enough to remind us that the message is deliberate. That she knows exactly what she’s doing.
“Senator Morrison is approaching them,” Jace observes, his tactical mind still tracking threats even while the rest of him is focused on Parker.
I watch as the senator—mid-sixties, silver hair, expensive suit—intercepts Parker and Ryan near the champagne fountain. Ryan makes introductions. The senator takes Parker’s hand, holds it a beat too long.
Parker’s smile doesn’t waver, but I see the subtle shift in her posture. The slight withdrawal that’s so small only someone who knows her would notice.
The senator says something. Parker responds with something that makes him laugh. Ryan’s hand tightens on her back.
“He’s getting too comfortable,” Silas mutters.
“Who, the senator or Ryan?”
“Both.”
We watch as Parker extracts herself from the conversation with practiced ease, murmuring something about needing to find her brother. Ryan follows, still touching her, still positioning himself as her escort.
They move toward where Charles and Sienna are holding court near one of the art installations—a massive sculpture of twisted metal that probably cost more than a house. Charles sees them coming, his expression brightening as he waves them over.