Chapter Thirty-Three
Roman
The dingy apartment complex my sources guided me to is wedged between a liquor store and a strip club.
The outside is riddled with signs of age; the brick that was once vibrant is now muted and worn, and the cement steps leading up to the lobby have seen better days.
It’s definitely not a place where a security guard, often employed by celebrities, would live, but word spreads fast. Our target has most likely been blacklisted since the recent break-in, forcing him to find something more cost-efficient.
“Unit two,” Maddox says as his car door slams. He’s flicking through the file our connection sent on his phone, rattling off the ex-guard’s description.
“Thirty-year-old male who goes by Butch, but his real name is Vincent Brown. He’s six-two and two-hundred and twenty-five pounds with a distinct scar over the left corner of his lip.
Before he was employed by Rosalie, he worked for a few other high-profile people—mostly socialites or heiresses. ”
I nod, circling the information around my head until I’ve memorized it all. We waste no time hanging around. With Rosalie’s father not making any recent moves, it’s alarming. He could be anywhere, plotting his next attack. We have to be ahead of him.
Stepping into the lobby, an old stale smell hits me hard. There’s an overflowing trash can near the door, and the navy carpet beneath my feet is stained and dirty. The single, overhead light bulb flickers, a sign that whoever owns this building doesn’t care about the damage or repairs it may need.
We stalk down the first-floor hallway, stopping in front of the second yellowing door. I glance over my shoulder at Maddox. “Ready?”
He nods as I rap my knuckle against the wood. There’s shuffling from the other side before the locks on the door slide, and it opens. The chain lock prevents the tenant from fully opening it. And prevents us from storming in.
A man who fits Vincent Brown’s description stands in the doorway, wearing a white tank top and baggy basketball shorts that hang to his knees. His hair is still wet from his shower as he scowls at me. “Can I help you?”
“Butch?” I question.
His eyes narrow slightly. “Who’s asking?”
“I have a few questions pertaining to Rose Beckett—”
He slams the door shut in my face, and I hear him slide the other locks in place.
I roll my shoulders before rearing back and slamming my boot into the door.
The frame splinters as I send the wood smacking into the opposite wall.
Vincent scuttles back, snatching a knife from the block in his small kitchen.
He holds it up to me, ready for a fight.
“Get the fuck out of my apartment!” He shouts.
“We could have done this the nice way, but you had to go and screw it all up.” I sneer. “Now, are you going to answer my questions or am I going to have to use force?”
“I’m not telling you shit!” He lunges at me, and I side-step him before wrestling the knife from his hand. He backs off when I jab the point in his direction, raising his hands like the weak fucker he is.
“Find his phone,” I command Maddox.
My friend tears the apartment apart, upturning couch cushions and ransacking the poor guy’s room until it looks like a tornado spun through it. The whole time he looks, I try to get Butch to talk.
“Who paid you off?”
He huffs. “I already said I’m not telling you—”
I close in on him, grabbing the neckline of his shirt as I drag him to me. I get in his face as I jab the point of the knife into his side. Fear flickers across his features as he tries to scramble away. “You can either volunteer the information, or I’ll carve it out of you. Fucking. Talk.”
He stammers, his mouth moving too quickly for his words. “I-I don’t k-know who he is! I only know his name!”
“Then it would be wise to give it to me, right?” I tilt my head.
He nods quickly. “Waylon!”
Waylon Beckett.
We have confirmation.
Maddox comes out of the bedroom empty-handed as he peers around the apartment.
His eyes trail to the hardwood flooring in the kitchen before he trudges past us and slams his boot on one of the planks.
He keeps testing them until one echoes back with a hollow sound, and he squats down.
He digs his fingers into the crack, then rips it open, exposing a hidden compartment.
He reaches in before pulling out a wad of cash and a cell phone. “Found it.”
He tosses it to me, and I catch it before shoving it into Butch’s hands. “Pull up the number he contacted you with.”
The ex-guard fumbles with it as he scrolls through the call log until he finds an unsaved number. He hands it back to me, and I program the contact into my phone, then call it and lift the speaker to my ear. It rings twice.
“Hello?” A rough, deep voice greets, and my teeth grit at hearing Rosalie’s abuser acting so normal despite what he put her through. We’re no better, but we’re making up for what we put her through. He’s still trying to leech off his daughter’s success like the pathetic excuse he is.
“Waylon Beckett,” I chuckle humorlessly. “How have you been?”
“Who the fuck is this?”
“That doesn’t matter,” I dismiss. “I’m calling to give you a warning. If you come anywhere near Rosalie again, I’ll kill you.”
There’s shuffling from the other side of the phone before Waylon’s angry, slurring tone reaches me. “I don’t know how you got this number, but you can’t stop me. She’s my daughter, and she owes me far more than a few grand.”
My patience was already so thin for this man, and it’s now obliterated. He thinks our Siren owes him for the trauma he put her through. He’s got another thing fucking coming. “She doesn’t owe you a damn thing. Come near her again, and I’ll make sure you fucking suffer.”
He hangs up on me, and I toss the phone back to Maddox. “Track the number. Get me a location so we can put eyes on him.”
My friend nods as Butch looks between us with uncertainty. The ex-guard clears his throat. “You got what you wanted. Are we good?”
Maddox and I exchange a silent conversation with our eyes.
No, we’re not good.
Maddox closes us in the apartment, and I corner Butch.
My elbow rears back before I deliver a punishing blow to his nose, crushing the bones.
The man falls back, shielding his face as I reconstruct his god damned jaw.
When he’s nothing but a bloody, swollen mess, I leave him as a warning to anyone who may come across him.
This has only just begun, but we plan to finish it. Waylon Beckett has no idea what lengths we’ll go to for his daughter. She’s no longer his concern, because she’s ours.
And it’s set in stone.
Walking into the living room of Rosalie’s home, I’m not expecting to see her and Kairo, freshly bathed and dressed in robes, as Rosalie expertly places a gel facemask over Kairo’s cheeks.
“What are you doing?” I ask from the doorway, causing them both to turn towards us.
My friend lifts a brow. “Skin care. You wouldn’t get it.”
Rosalie rolls her lips in as she masks her laugh.
“I want to try it,” Maddox says as he walks past me.
Our girl’s face lights up as she pats a spot on the couch. “There’s plenty to go around.”
Seeing her joy is infectious, spreading through me as I rest my head back against my shoulders and close my eyes.
I sigh before joining them on the sofa, and she spends the next ten minutes giving us our own gel masks.
When she’s pleased with our look, Kairo pops some popcorn as she turns on a reality TV show.
We all settle in, Rosalie leaning against Kairo and her legs extended over Maddox’s lap, who is seated in the middle.
Her feet rest on my thighs, and I massage them absently as we watch fourteen men battle for the attention of one woman.
I’ve never seen this show before, but a lot of their problems would be solved if they would just share the woman. It’s easy enough, but I know not everyone is poly. Still, it makes more sense that way.
“They just all need to fuck her,” Kairo voices out loud as if he’s read my thoughts. “Why fight when they can all enjoy her together?”
Rosalie’s head turns. “I was meaning to ask about that. Have you always been polyamorous?”
The blonde shrugs. “Yeah. We were close since childhood, and it honestly just made more sense. We never got into fights over women, but it’s hard to find someone who can handle all three of us.”
Maddox rubs his hand up her calf, his eyes staying glued to the scandal on screen. “It was hard to find someone who could handle us…”
I know the implication behind that. The game they think they’re playing hasn’t gone over my head.
They’re testing her. It’s what we do with all of our relationships.
Most end up tucking their tails and running the other way at the prospect of being with three men at once.
We’re a lot to handle, but Rosalie doesn't seem to think so. We’ve blended in with her life seamlessly, and she isn’t showing any signs of being hesitant about our configuration.
“I have another question…” Rosalie trails. “What’s going on between us?”
We all stop, our eyes darting to each other. Maddox is more subtle with his knowing stare, while Kairo’s head whips around to me, his eyes pleading.
“Well,” I clear my throat, digging my thumbs into the heel of her foot. “We’re a closed quad, which means we stick with our partner and we don’t allow any outsiders.”
She frowns, her eyes slightly fluttering as I massage her. “You know what I mean, Roman.”
Fuck. Hearing her say my name sends a shiver rolling down my spine as I try to keep my composure.
It’s all becoming too much for me to fight—her reactions, her smart mouth, and the way she fits perfectly between us.
Try as I might, Rosalie is embedded in me.
She’s left a mark over my heart, forever etched into my skin.
There is no us without her. It’s why none of our other relationships have worked. Because they weren’t her.
I reach across, gathering the hair at the nape of her neck before dragging her up to me.
She sits in Maddox’s lap, a small gasp slipping past her parted lips as Kairo closes her in from behind.
We all have a point of contact with her—Maddox holds her hips still, his fingers digging into her robe, and Kairo snakes his arms around her waist, spreading a hand over her stomach that I’m sure is fluttering right now.
She’s probably leaving a damp spot on my friend’s leg from her arousal, and the thought only urges me forward as I speak with conviction and passion.
“It means you’re ours, Rosalie. No one else will ever possess you the way we do. You belong to us.” Every word is heavy, cementing finality between us like a promise.
Her eyes flicker between mine, a flurry of emotions passing behind them. “And what if I don’t want to be yours?”
I chuckle, the sound dark and depraved. “You never had an option, Siren.”