Epilogue
A month later
Vivian
"How many people has Arthur invited to his 'Second Coming’?" My husband scowls at the cars parked down the driveway and overflowing onto the street outside.
The second coming is what this event has been labelled by the rest of the Davenports.
Apparently, there’s a messaging group that Connor, the youngest Davenport, created, so they could talk about the purpose of this event.
My husband was added, and he grudgingly accepted the invitation, though he rarely bothers to check it; shocker.
The one time he did get on it in the past week is how he found out his nephews think Arthur’s going to make a big announcement today, which is why he’s invited not only the Davenports, but also close friends.
The grapevine is abuzz with speculation that there might be a tabloid reporter in the mix, who’d be getting exclusive access to the event to report the big scoop.
Q eases his bike to a stop and lowers the side stand.
I slide off with reluctance. My favorite part of being married is being able to ride behind my husband, clinging to him as he weaves through traffic and leaning into him as he takes curves.
The thrill of doing it, with the momentum pinning me to him, my body plastered to his, the wind whipping around us, enclosing us in our own private cocoon as he zooms down an open highway…
is almost orgasmic. Though that might have to do with my being able to slide my fingers under his leather jacket and his shirt, flattening them against his taut stomach, and feeling the muscles ripple as he controls the bike.
It's a primal thrill. It infuses my body with adrenaline, which I’m coming down from as I wait for him to dismount. He takes my helmet and locks it in the rack, alongside his. Then, he holds out his hand. "Shall we?"
I take in his much-worn jeans which cling to his powerful thighs, the leather jacket which outlines the breadth of his shoulders, hair slightly overgrown, more than it was when I first met him, and mussed.
His cheekbones are sharp enough to cut my heart to pieces, and his lower lip pouty enough that every time I glimpse it, I have an irrational need to bite down on it.
The lines around his eyes crinkle as he grins at me.
He looks younger, more relaxed, more at ease.
"Marriage suits you, Mr. Davenport." I smile.
"And you, Mrs. Davenport." He locks his arm around my waist and draws me in. I melt against him, raise my lips, and he closes his mouth over mine.
The kiss starts off tenderly, full of promises which I know he intends to keep, full of hope for our future, and happiness, and joy, and every possible emotion that feels right and true and real.
Then he swipes his tongue between the seam of my lips, and a jolt of need shoots through my veins.
My core clenches; my stomach bottoms out.
The sensations zip down to my toes, then back to my pussy, where they hook their teeth into my sensitive skin and elicit a groan from me.
A sound that he promptly swallows. He wraps his fingers around my hair and pulls, and the pain bites into my scalp, sinks into my blood, and zooms down to the triangle between my legs.
He positions me over his thigh, and I shamelessly begin to hump it, trying to get myself off, trying to— A wolf whistle cuts through my thoughts.
I try to pull away, but Q continues to kiss me.
I’m aware of someone approaching us. I slap at his shoulder, and he releases me, but not before he squeezes both of my butt cheeks with his massive paws.
The sharp pain spikes my lust, and I almost come.
Then he wraps his arm about my shoulders and, turning me around, pulls me into his side. "Son," he holds out his hand.
Felix shakes it, a broad grin on his face. "Seriously, you two, get a room." He laughs.
Q smirks.
I roll my eyes.
In the past month, since Q stepped down as CEO, he’s spent a lot of time getting to know his son. The result? There’s a noticeable ease between them. There’ll always be history between the three of us, but there’s an understanding which binds us as family.
"You guys have any idea about what Arthur’s cooking up?" Felix stabs his thumb in the direction of the house.
Q raises a shoulder. "Don’t know. Don’t care. Am here only out of courtesy, and only because Arthur insisted."
He shakes his head. "You’re free of his machinations, now that you’re happily married, and you’re no longer part of the Davenport Group.
I admit, I was shocked to hear you resigned as CEO, but the more I think about it, the more I realize you made the right decision.
You’re a free man.” His eyes shadow for a few seconds, then he pulls himself together.
"It’s time I owned my future. Time I gave shape to my plans and struck out on my own. "
Q regards him with curiosity. "What are you going to do?"
He looks between us, and when he smiles, it carries a hint of decisiveness. "You’ll find out inside." He nods at us, then continues into the house.
"Should we be worried?" I wonder aloud.
"Nah"—my husband shakes his head—"I trust Felix to make the right decision." A-n-d, that’s how much things have changed. A few months ago, I doubt he’d have been able to say that.
But Q has put in a lot of effort in building bridges with Felix.
"No matter what he decides, his trust fund is in place as a safety net. He’ll inherit, as long as he gets married before he turns thirty. "
"Is that wise?" I look up into his handsome face. "You’re doing an Arthur on him?"
He winces. "Guilty as charged. And I hate to say it, but perhaps there's a method to Arthur’s madness, after all. If not for him, I wouldn’t have been compelled to act on my instinct and ask you to marry me as soon as I met you.
" He bends and brushes his lips against mine. "Or perhaps, I’d have done it anyway, but Arthur’s ultimatum had a role to play in my actions. There’s no refuting that."
"We owe him." I nod.
"Which is why we’re here." He blows out a breath "Shall we get this over with?"
"Is the theme… A Mad Hatter’s Tea Party?" Knox nods in the direction of the long table set up in the center of the garden.
“Sure could pass for it,” I agree.
We’re standing in the backyard of Arthur’s townhouse. Trees surround the estate, shielding us from early afternoon visitors to Primrose Hill. Knox shuffles his feet, then rolls his shoulders. He continues to scan the group gathered around the table.
"You okay, man?" My husband shoots him a curious glance. "You seem… on edge."
"You need to get your eyesight checked, old man," Knox grabs a glass from a passing waiter and takes a sip, only to spit it out. "Some non-alcoholic shit," he growls.
"I can help." The same petite, blonde-haired, bespectacled, curvy woman who hides her curves by wearing a suit two sizes too big, who I saw at the gallery a month ago, materializes at his side. She pulls out a flask and splashes clear liquid into Knox’s half-filled glass.
Knox relaxes. "Thanks, doll," he says without looking at her.
She winces but stays silent.
He downs half the glass and sighs in appreciation.
She begins to melt away, but he snaps his fingers, still without looking at her "Don’t go, I’ll need you to pour." He holds out his glass again.
My jaw drops. What the fuck? Clearly, being obnoxious runs in the Davenport bloodline. That is, until these men are put in their place by the right woman. I open my mouth to tell Knox off, but before I can speak, the blonde pipes up, "I don’t think you want to get drunk, sir."
Knox frowns. Staring in the direction of the house, he keeps his arm outstretched. The silence stretches. The tension in the air ratchets up, but Knox seems oblivious. He’s too busy scanning his surroundings, as if he’s looking for something… Or someone?
The blonde purses her lips, then relents and pours a dollop more into the glass. "Thanks." He tosses it back, then looks around as if wondering where to keep it. She takes it from him, and he nods again. "Don’t know what I’d do without you, Sierra."
"It’s June," she mumbles under her breath, but he doesn’t seem to hear her.
He knows her name but purposely got it wrong. Why would he do that? Does he want to rile her up?
I exchange glances with my husband, who shakes his head. Without saying anything, he communicates what I’m thinking: Knox is a cunt. And she’s way too good for him.
"Anyone know what Gramps is up to?" Tyler prowls over to join us.
Man’s the tallest and the biggest of all the Davenports.
His features could be cast from granite.
His eyes are cold. His expression is both bored and lethal.
Something about these Davenport men. They’re not what you’d call handsome…
Not when their features have that hint of cruelty which marks them out as men who have few scruples in life.
And yet, they have the kind of charisma that makes women throw their panties at them and compels men to turn envious.
While Ryot is the one I wouldn’t want to meet in a dark alley—I've seen what he can do—Tyler’s the guy who’d come at you with such stealth, that despite his bulk, you wouldn’t see him until it’s too late. He looms over the rest of us. In a suit and tie, he looks barely civilized for this gathering.
Zoey waves to me from the other side of the garden, where she’s talking with Summer and Sinclair Sterling.
She’s become close to Arthur, who treats her like the daughter he never had.
Brody and Connor stand at a distance, smoking, without bothering to hide their cigarettes. Ryot is nowhere to be seen.
Lizzie is talking with Felix. The two have become good friends. I was worried there might be something romantic between them, but Lizzie laughed it off. She hinted, I'm not the only one who has a thing for silver foxes, a comment I chose to ignore.
My father was invited but declined the invitation, preferring to spend the evening with his caregiver-turned-girlfriend. He's happy, and she seems like a genuinely sweet woman.
Tiny ambles into the backyard, making a beeline for the long table packed with foodstuffs. He surveys it, and his ears droop. The mutt looks crestfallen, then walks back to Arthur.
Guess he’s unhappy he didn’t find any champagne.
The dog has a weakness for the bubbly drink, it’s true!
But since Arthur’s diagnosis, Imelda has banned all alcohol and cigars from the house, and to my surprise, the man didn’t protest. Is it true love?
Probably. Though she’s not here today, and I’m not sure why that is?
Not that anyone has the courage to ask Arthur that either.
According to Q, you wouldn’t have caught Arthur listening to anyone else before Imelda came into his life. Now, he seems less hard on himself. Arthur takes his seat. It’s a signal for the rest of us to take our places.
June turns to leave, but Knox points to the chair on his right. She hesitates, then complies. The chair to his left stays vacant. The rest of us take our seats. There’s a general buzz around the table. Otis tops up our glasses with more of the non-alcoholic beverage then stands to the side.
Arthur clinks his knife against his glass, and the chatter dies down.
"No doubt, you're all curious about why you’ve been summoned."
"Why should we be? We only had to drop what we were doing in the middle of a working day and attend to your summons," Brody growls under his breath.
"Something you want to share with the table?" Arthur arches an eyebrow in his grandson’s direction.
Brody shrugs. "It’s a working day."
"And I am the patriarch of this family… Still. So, you boys and girls will come when I call." It’s a statement which brooks no argument. Arthur glances around the table, the look on his features implying my-word-is-final.
Brody groans. Connor chugs down water from a bottle like it’s going out of style. Tyler’s expression is as immovable as ever. And Knox? His gaze is focused on the house.
"Is he waiting for someone?" I whisper.
Quentin shakes his head. "Don’t think so."
But the seat next to him says otherwise.
"Felix"—Arthur nods in his direction—"you have something to tell us?"
The noise at the table dies down again.
Felix clears his throat. "I’m joining the Marines."
My husband freezes. I shoot him a glance to find a mixture of surprise and pride on his face—combined with a trace of fear.
"You didn’t know?"
He shakes his head. "He hinted to me, but no… I didn’t think he’d go through with it."
Felix meets my husband’s gaze. "I hope to be half as good at it as my father was."
My husband’s throat moves as he swallows. Then he raises his glass. "To Felix."
"To Felix." The rest of us raise our glasses. After we’ve taken a sip—with the blonde topping up Knox’s glass again—he places his glass on the table and rises to his feet.
He heads toward the house, where a woman steps out onto the porch.
She’s tall, willowy, and wearing a green dress that reaches below her knees.
It’s sleeveless, baring her thin white arms. Her dark hair is a waterfall of health that flows down her back.
Her eyes are almond shaped, her skin creamy, and so pale the sun seems to be reflected off of it to bathe her in an ethereal light.
Knox guides her over to the table and seats her on his left.
There’s pin-drop silence at the table as we stare at the newcomer.
"Can I do the honors?" Arthur asks.
Knox shrugs. "By all means."
Arthur frowns, then smooths out his expression. "This is Priscilla Whittington, Toren Whittington’s sister. Toren and I agree that the best way to resolve our family feud and join our collective fortunes is through an arranged marriage."
"Of course you did," Brody snorts.
Arthur ignores him. “Tor couldn’t be here, but he was happy for us to go ahead with announcing—"
"To cut a long story short, Priscilla has agreed to be my wife," Knox cuts in with a bored eye-roll.
I glance at June's face, and she looks stricken.
There’s the sound of a glass breaking, and I turn to find Tyler pushing back from the table. He looks between the Knox and Priscilla, then turns and stalks off.
June, on the other hand, seems frozen. It’s clear, she didn’t see this coming either.
Knox, of course, is oblivious to the drama unfolding around him. He raises his glass in Priscilla’s direction. "To my future wife."