Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148434 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Eliot is the one to clamp a hand on Thatcher’s back. “Follow us, boyfriend-in-law.”
Thatcher seems unruffled and ready for any hell. He swivels a knob on his radio and glances over at his brother.
Banks upnods to him. “Get some.”
I recognize the military lingo, but not all my brothers do. They send each other wary looks, and it creates a new tension. A new divide between them and Thatcher.
As though we belong to two vastly different worlds, and it’ll take blood and sweat to pull him into ours.
We can do this. I try to bolster courage as I come up beside my boyfriend.
Thatcher clasps my hand and threads our fingers.
We can jump over fences naked together.
Don’t be afraid, Jane.
9
THATCHER MORETTI
Cobalts are a tornadic force you don’t want to fuck with. Out of the three famous families, they have the most power and can wield it with the snap of a finger.
Should I be afraid?
I think if I were someone else, I might shrink at the eye-popping, slack-jawed sight: all five Cobalt brothers strewn across a U-shaped booth like they’re Apollo, Zeus—godly figures—posing for an oil painting to be immortalized.
Among tabloids and fans, Xander Hale is considered the “prettiest” boy. Maximoff Hale is in a league of his own. And the Cobalt brothers—they’re cited as the “sexiest,” oozing some kind of ancient, sensual allure.
But as I lower on a chair next to Jane and face her brothers, I can’t flinch. Or shy. It’s not in me. I’ve seen and lived through the worst hell, and whatever conditions they set, I can survive.
I just can’t make an enemy out of them, and lately I’ve been way too good at making those.
My objective: don’t piss off my girlfriend’s brothers.
And behind that objective lies another: take care of them.
Her brothers are in their teens and early twenties, and I’m still a bodyguard—I’m not here to cause harm. I want to defend and protect them, and the sooner I’m on their side, the easier this’ll be.
But Christ, I have no idea what they want me to do. So I’m in recon-mode. Attentive. Frosty. I assess each guy in every passing beat. Trying to determine which one will be the flat-out hardest to please.
Charlie Cobalt? He’s a wild card. Could be helpful, could be antagonistic. Could be something that I’ve never confronted before.
He lounges like he’s about to be fed grapes: his foot on the cracked leather cushion, elbow on his knee. His yellow-green eyes puncture me. “You were fucking our sister during the fake-dating ploy.”
I don’t blink.
“Charlie.” Jane’s face is beet-red.
I’ve listened to men talk crasser about so much fucking worse. Hearing this should be like popping a jellybean in my mouth. Too easy. But a sharp taste sears my throat, and I rake a hand over my hardened jaw.
“I was respecting your sister.” I will always respect Jane.
Eliot hoists himself on top of the booth frame. He uncorks a bottle of wine between his legs. It pops. “Did you hear that, brothers? Thatcher, here, was respectfully fucking our sister.”
Starting off just great.
I stare blankly.
“Dear God,” Jane mutters under her breath, wide-eyed like a freight train just smacked into her face.
Concern flexes my muscles. I watch Jane out of the corner of my eye but keep fixed on her brothers. “I didn’t say that.”
“It’s what I heard, dude.” Tom slouches back, lip upturned.
“All Thatcher said was that he was respecting our sister,” Ben argues.
I nod once. I’d angle towards the idea that Ben Cobalt already likes me, but with his long legs tucked to his chest and head tilted back, he’s sizing me up.
Haven’t won him over.
Beckett brings a cigarette to his mouth with a graceful hand. Not saying a thing yet. Based off past history—Beckett trying to nail Farrow down—I’m guessing he’ll be the last to come around on me.
Eliot fists the neck of the wine and tells Ben, “It was said between his words.”
“Subtext.” Tom drums his fingers on the table.
I adjust my earpiece, static crackling with comms chatter while Akara tries to locate Quinn Oliveira, Luna’s bodyguard.
Empty bottles and half-eaten baskets of wings are cleared off the table. Familiar scents of cheesesteak and beer linger. I shouldn’t be surprised the Cobalt brothers wanted to stay at South Philly Brew since Charlie bought out the bar.
But they could’ve easily just taken me to some upper-class, blue-blooded, rich-prick place where I’d have to feel my way in the dark to the finish line.
It puts me on a steep edge. Like they’re up to something more unexpected. Something worse. My senses hum on a taut vibration.
Jane’s collarbones jut out, and she slips each brother a warning look.
The security team is going to talk about this shit for years. Not because I plan to run my mouth about it.
Anyone who isn’t a Cobalt—like Maximoff, Sullivan, my twin brother, like Omega and Epsilon bodyguards, like fucking Tony—watches us from the bar. Not even pretending to be disinterested.