Chapter 33
THIRTY-THREE
brOOKS
“Meow!”
I look down at my feet, see the kitten that Thorn had claimed—or that had claimed Thorn. Its accusing eyes pierce into mine. “Don’t look at me,” I mutter. “He’s the one with the heart of ice who left you behind.”
“Meow!”
Sighing, I bend over and scoop her up. “Don’t worry,” I murmur. “I’m sure he’ll cave to your theatrics soon enough.”
Thorn might be a surly bastard, but the careful way he’d handled the kitten betrayed him.
Violet—the litter is named after flowers this time—will be on her way to her permanent home soon enough.
And that home will be with Thorn.
“How long do you give it, huh?” I stroke my hand along her little back. “A week? Nah. I give the man two days before he caves.”
“Meow!”
“I know. But I’ve got you while you wait. You can claw the furniture, run like a maniac through the halls, and fill that little belly with kitty kibble.”
“Meow!”
“And you’ll wear down Grump McGrumperface soon enough. He’ll spoil you rotten.”
“Meow.”
“Yeah, he’s grumpy, but he’s a good guy. He’ll treat you right.”
“Meow.” She stretches, rubbing her face against my chin. “Meow. Meow. Meow.”
“Okay, Ms. Chatterbox,” I murmur, walking her over to her siblings and settling her near one of the fluffy beds that have taken over my living room.
She immediately starts batting at a feather-encrusted ball, drawing her two brothers’ and three sisters’ attention.
A Kitty Royale for domination of the feather ball ensues and I find myself watching the chaos and smiling.
I should be freaking out.
Should be frantically trying to fix this.
Pascal’s crew had intercepted a letter.
It was a photo of Briar and me leaving the charity function, my fingers wrapped tightly around her arm, our faces angry.
No note with it.
No threat.
Just a clear message that they’re watching.
Who exactly is watching, we don’t know. Though Pascal has tracked down a link confirming that Jace is right. It seems like this shit is all connected.
The Lyon family is the scum of the earth.
(And, joy, my father worked closely with them).
So, it’s not just the personal attacks on me and Jean-Michel and Chrissy, nor even the corporate espionage and underhanded tactics within all our companies.
It’s not what they did to Briar.
It’s all of that…plus human trafficking and God knows what else.
Attie, the FBI agent in charge of the investigation that brought down part of their human trafficking ring last year, knows there are other arms of the organization she hasn’t uncovered yet, but they seem to be able to slip in and out of the corporate world and the dark underbelly of the crime world with equanimity.
She said they’re like a fucking hydra—cut off one head and another emerges.
Fucking Lyons.
But even though Pascal had imparted that information before heading back out to do security chief things, I feel remarkably…steady?
It doesn’t make sense.
Except that Briar is here.
We have a second chance to figure this shit out together.
And Rory passed along the name of her trauma therapist before she left, along with a whispered word saying she’d already booked Briar an appointment for the next day.
Presumptuous.
But effective, I have to admit.
The kittens scatter and I turn to see Briar standing in the hall. Her skin is flushed pink and she’s wrapped in a robe, her hair bundled on the top of her head. “Hey,” she says softly.
“Hey.”
And…cue awkward silence.
“You tired?” I ask softly.
“I thought I was.”
“But now?”
“My mind is going a thousand different directions.”
“Want to talk about it?”
She sighs, tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear. “No.” Her mouth hitches up. “I’m tired of talking.”
“Want to watch a movie?”
Her face goes soft. “Which movie?”
“You pick.”
“Really?”
“It’s your turn.”
We always switched off, and, five years ago, during our last movie night together, I made the selection.
Her brows drag together as she processes that. “God, that’s right. You chose that awful action flick.”
“It wasn’t awful.”
Now those brows fly up. “Really? That’s what you’re going with?”
“The fight scenes were epic.”
“And improbable.” A beat. “With CGI from the eighties.”
My lips twitch but I just pass her the remote then head for the kitchen to make popcorn. By the time I’m coming back, a bowl in my hands, she’s made a choice.
One has me stifling a groan.
The Princess Bride, really?
We must have watched it a hundred times together.
Her eyes come to mine and there’s something clinging to their edges that makes my heart ache. Like she’s extended an olive branch but some part of her is waiting for me to bat it away.
Instead, I wrap my fingers around it, cradle it close to my chest.
Then I pass her the popcorn, murmur, “As you wish.”
The last thing I remember is fleeing the Fire Swamp—
No, it was Buttercup and Wesley fleeing the horrors of that treacherous swamp.
So why does it feel like I’m navigating something equally as risky?
Probably because Briar is sleeping on my chest, her face peaceful and young, and for a moment, I can pretend I’ve gone back in time, back before all this shit happened.
I gently smooth my hand over her hair, the strands like silk.
Though not as soft as the fur from the two kittens curled up next to her.
They start purring as I pet them and I know that Briar and I have been claimed the same as Thorn.
The only question is if Briar’s going to let me claim her too.
I turn off the TV, carefully extract us from the pile of kittens, and carry Briar down the hall.
The door’s closed because Chrissy advised us to limit the parts of the apartment the kittens will have access to, but it sure as shit makes it difficult for me to get in the bedroom with my woman in my arms.
Eventually, I manage to turn the knob, get her through the door, and then onto the bed, all without waking her.
I tug the blankets up, turn for the hall.
“Brooks?” I hear as I reach the threshold.
She’s rumpled and sleepy, her hair tumbling down her shoulders.
“Yeah, baby?”
“I used to think the fantasy was the fact that you swept in and rescued me from the disaster that was my life.”
My heart starts pounding.
“But I’ve learned that the fantasy is actually the small things. Popcorn and a movie. A purring kitten and hot chocolate. Spending time with friends and warm arms keeping me safe.”
My pulse is thrumming through my veins so rapidly I feel lightheaded.
It’s all I can do to stay on my feet.
Let alone come up with something to say in response.
She takes care of that for me.
“Goodnight, Brooks.”
But as I walk down the hall to my office, all I can think of is Pascal’s words.
She needs space. From you.
And how much of a monster it makes me if I can’t give her that.