15. Jamison
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
JAMISON
Iwould rather take a bullet than become the kind of man who built a house like Marcel’s.
The house sat above the western Harlan cliffs, tucked behind black gates and old trees.
The harbour visible beyond the lower gardens.
Glass doors opening onto terraces designed for summer evenings and Emmie’s need to watch storms roll in over the ocean.
Her need.
That was the problem.
Every inch of the place had been built around her.
The kitchen had lower shelves because she hated asking staff to reach things.
The reading room faced east because morning sun made her less restless.
The downstairs sitting room had soft cream sofas deep enough for her to curl into Marcel’s side while he handled calls.
The marble bath upstairs had a built-in ledge for her candles, oils, and the ridiculous collection of little jars she kept buying because somebody on Veil promised they would make her skin glow.
Her skin already glowed.
Marcel bought them anyway.
Then there was the garden.
Fuck me.
Her herb garden sat off the kitchen terrace behind a low stone wall, filled with rosemary, basil, mint, thyme, lavender, and several plants that had turned brown enough to qualify as evidence.
Emmie killed herbs.
Constantly.
Everyone knew. Nobody mentioned it.
New pots appeared every few weeks. Fresh soil. Fresh plants. Little handwritten labels. A new watering system installed by professionals who had probably expected to solve the issue until they realized Emmie forgot plants existed whenever anything interesting appeared on television.
Marcel replaced them quietly.
No acknowledgment that half the basil had died under direct supervision.
Pathetic.
I stood by the terrace doors with a cigarette between my fingers and watched Marcel pace through the living room while Harrison raided the bar.
“You need to stop walking,” I said.
Marcel ignored me.
He had been doing that for twelve minutes.
Back and forth across the room. One hand in his pocket. The other checking his phone every few seconds as if Emmie had been gone for several weeks instead of ninety minutes.
“She went shopping,” I reminded him.
“I’m aware.”
“With Sienna.”
“I’m aware.”
“And security.”
His gaze cut toward me. “I know where my wife is.”
“Then why are you pacing?”
Marcel looked at his phone again.
“Because Emmie’s upset,” Harrison poured whiskey into three glasses and slid one toward me across the bar.
“I gathered.”
“Which means Marcel is upset.”
Marcel’s life revolved around Emmie.
Entirely.
He pretended otherwise because he still ran businesses, took meetings, handled Crow holdings, and made enough men afraid to keep his reputation intact. But the center of his existence had shifted the moment his wife became his.
Everything came back to her.
Her sleep.
Her appetite.
Her mood.
Her safety.
Her collar.
Especially the fucking collar. I looked toward the hallway where the collar cabinet had been built into the wall in the main bedroom wing.
An actual cabinet.
Climate controlled.
Rosewood-lined.
Lit from within.
Marcel had planned an entire section of his house around jewelry his wife wore at her throat because apparently dignity died the moment a Crow man married.
I would rather be shot.
Twice.
The cabinet held too many fucking choices. Emmie mainly wore one of the rose-gold collar every day. That one opened beneath Marcel’s thumbprint and sat close against her throat. Subtle enough for society. Obvious enough for anyone who understood Crow houses.
Marcel could not leave it alone. His fingers found it constantly. He touched the metal the way other men checked weapons.
Obsession.
Utterly revolting.
“I will never live in a house designed around a collar cabinet,” I said.
Harrison looked toward the hallway. “I think the herb garden bothers you more.”
“The herb garden is a crime scene.”
“They’re recovering,” Marcel said absently.
I looked through the glass doors at the dead basil.
“From death?”
He ignored that too.
I took the whiskey Harrison poured and sat in one of the armchairs facing the ocean. The chair was too comfortable. Emmie had chosen it, obviously. Nothing in Marcel’s house allowed a man to feel appropriately miserable.
“I don’t know why I’m here,” I said.
“Because Marcel summoned us,” Harrison replied.
“I didn’t summon anyone,” Marcel said.
“You sent six messages in ten minutes.”
“That was to ask whether either of you had spoken to Sienna.”
I took a drink.
“No.”
Harrison dropped onto the sofa opposite me. “Also no.”
Marcel stopped pacing. “You need to fix this.”
I stared at him. “Fix what?”
“Emmie.”
I laughed once.
“That is your wife.”
“I know.”
“Your whole house confirms it.”
His mouth flattened.
Harrison looked amused. “We are in the room where Emmie wanted softer lighting because the other room made her anxious after sunset.”
Marcel glanced toward the lamps as if considering whether they were bright enough.
Jesus Christ.
I took another drink.
“Everyone has become too attached to Sienna,” I said. “That isn’t my problem.”
Marcel stared at me.
“Technically, it is your fault.” Harrison leaned back against the sofa.
“How?”
“You brought sunshine into our orbit for three years, then acted surprised when people got used to the warmth.”
“That sentence was disgusting.”
“I’ve been around Emmie too long.”
“No such thing,” Marcel said, too fucking quickly.
Harrison and I both turned toward him.
He did not look ashamed.
Some days, it was hard to remember my eldest brother was a cold blood murderer. The front doors opened before I could explain how far he had fallen.
Marcel moved immediately.
Emmie entered first with a shopping bag in one hand and her phone in the other. She wore a summer dress and the rose-gold collar at her throat.
Sienna came in behind her.
My attention found her before I had time to decide whether it should.
That irritated me.
Everything about Sienna irritated me lately.
The way she had kissed me back in the rear seat of my car, and trusting enough to make my whole body tighten every time memory dragged me there without permission.
Her fingers in my hair.
Her mouth opening beneath mine.
Her body settling over my lap as if she had been built for it. The way her pussy clenched around my fingers.
Fuck.
I took another drink.
“Jamison.” Sienna looked at me. Her steps slowed by half a second. Formal again. The name landed wrong.
“Sienna.”
Her eyes lowered.
I hated that too.
Marcel did not spare either of us a glance. His entire focus had gone to Emmie, reading her face before she reached him.
“Come to Daddy’s lap,” he said.
Daddy was normal in Crow houses. As ordinary as husband. Still revolting when they came from Marcel because Marcel said them with complete sincerity, like Emmie’s body belonged exactly where he asked for it.
She went to him.
He sat on the deep cream sofa and drew her onto his lap, one arm wrapping around her waist. Emmie settled into his chest. His fingers immediately lifted to the rose-gold collar at her throat.
Of course they did.
Thumb against the edge.
Then the clasp.
Then the smooth front again.
Addiction.
I looked away.
Harrison watched the movement, then glanced at me.
“Your future,” he murmured.
“I’ll choose the bullet.”
Sienna heard. Her face changed slightly before she turned toward the terrace windows. Fuck. I had meant the house, and Marcel’s emotional collapse. Not— It did not matter what I meant. Sienna had learned to hear herself in every cruel sentence I spoke.
That was my fault too, apparently.
Emmie looked around from Marcel’s lap.
“Sienna’s driver is waiting outside,” Emmie said.
Sienna turned toward her. “I can stay.”
“No, sweetheart.” Emmie touched the collar at her throat where Marcel’s fingers still rested. “You have rehearsal tomorrow.”
“It’s fine.”
“You look tired.”
Sienna smiled faintly. “I’m always tired.”
The answer sounded too easy. My jaw tightened. Marcel noticed. He noticed everything in rooms containing Emmie, and Emmie noticed everything involving Sienna.
A terrible chain reaction of concern.
Sienna looked toward me once.
“I’ll see everyone this weekend,” she adjusted the shopping bag on her arm. She smiled at Emmie. “Thank you for today.”
“Anytime.”
Sienna leaned down and hugged her carefully around Marcel’s arm. Emmie held her too tightly for a shopping trip goodbye. That should have told Sienna something.
It didn’t. Sienna straightened.
“Harrison.” She nodded politely toward.
“Sunshine.”
Her gaze moved to me. “Good night, Jamison.”
“Night.”
Sienna left. The front doors closed. Quiet for three seconds. Emmie burst into tears. Every man in the room went still.
Emmie face against Marcel’s neck. Her shoulders shook once beneath his arm. His hand moved up her back while the other returned to her collar, fingers sliding over rose gold as if touching it reminded him she was here.
Safe.
His.
Upset.
Marcel looked at us. His expression became unbearable. A man watching his wife hurt and deciding the room needed to answer for it.
“What happened?” he asked.
Emmie shook her head.
“Baby.”
“She’s making plans,” Emmie whispered.
Marcel’s eyes lowered to her face. “Sienna?”
Emmie nodded. “She keeps talking about next month as if her entire life isn’t about to be moved somewhere else.”
I finished my drink.
Emmie pulled back enough to look at me. Her cheeks were wet. I hated that. I cared about Emmie.
More than I liked admitting.
She had married my brother and somehow become ours too. Ours to protect, tolerate terrible films for, and terrify Harlan over if anyone looked at her wrong. Seeing Emmie cry made something hostile move through my chest.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked.
“Want her.”
My fingers tightened around the empty glass.
Emmie looked at me like she genuinely did not understand.
“Why don’t you want her?”