33
Ella
Dinner in D.C. is fun, but I’m happy and relieved when the plane touches down on the private airstrip. I missed Reed, and I don’t like knowing that he’s been alone and in pain all night.
“Want to watch a movie with me and Reed?” I ask Easton as we climb out of the back of the Town Car.
He looks like he’s on the verge of agreeing when his phone buzzes. One glance at the screen and he’s shaking his head. “Wade’s inviting me over. He’s got a friend who needs an audience.”
Callum walks faster to avoid hearing his son’s plans. Me? I’ve got no choice.
“Be careful,” I tell Easton. Rising on my tiptoes, I give him a kiss on the cheek.
He ruffles my hair in return. “Always. I always wrap it up.” He yells after his dad, “Just like I was taught.”
I can’t tell in the dim light, but I think Callum flips him off without turning around.
“You be safe, too,” Easton teases. “Never know if Reed’s gonna try to trap you with a baby.” I grimace and he winces. “Sorry, stupid mouth.”
“No, it’s fine. Besides, she’s going to take that paternity test, so we’ll know who the father of the demon spawn is in a few days, right? Or a week.”
Easton hesitates. “You sure it’s not Reed’s?”
“He swears it isn’t his.”
“So it’s my dad’s?”
It’s my turn to hesitate. I wish I wasn’t keeping these secrets. I don’t know why Callum doesn’t tell his sons about the vasectomy. “No, I don’t think it’s his either.”
Easton exhales in a rush. “Good. We only have room for one more Royal in the house and you’re it.” Then he gives me a sweet kiss on the forehead and sprints for his truck.
Inside, the twins have taken themselves to parts unknown. Callum’s light is on in his office. The upstairs hallway leading to my bedroom—and Reed’s—is lit softly, and the quiet walk up the stairs is eerily similar to the night I found Brooke and Reed together. At the top, I stare down the long hall and my heart pounds a little faster.
I remind myself that things weren’t what I thought they were last time and that there’s no reason for anyone to be in Reed’s room but him. Still, my heart’s beating fast and my palms are damp with sweat when I arrive at his door.
“Reed?” I call out.
“In the bathroom,” comes his muffled response.
I breathe a sigh of relief and twist the knob. The room is empty, but light spills out of the half-open door to his private bath. I stick my head in, gasping when I spot him.
His bandage is off and there are bloody gauze pads on the sink. “Oh my God! What happened?”
“I pulled a couple stitches. Just changing the bandage.” He tosses the pink-stained dressing into the wastebasket and slaps the fresh white bandage onto his side. “Help me tape it up?”
I’m beside him in a heartbeat, a frown on my face as I pick up the roll of medical tape off the vanity. “How did this happen? Were you moving around a lot?”
“Not really.”
I spear him with narrowed eyes. That wasn’t a denial; it was an evasion. “Liar.”
“I moved a bit,” he concedes. “It’s no big deal.”
His blue eyes are hooded and dark. Was he downstairs working the bag? Still beating himself up over Brooke? As I rip a piece of tape, I peek at his knuckles, but they don’t look bruised.
“I knew I should have stayed behind,” I grumble. “You needed me. What were you doing while I was gone? Lifting weights?"
Instead of answering, he leans down and kisses me, hard and brief. Pulling away, he says, “I swear it was nothing. I was reaching for something, felt my stitches pull, and here I am.”
I purse my lips. “You’re not telling me something. I thought we had a no secrets rule.”
“Let’s not fight, baby.” He grabs my wrist and tugs me out of the bathroom and over to the bed. “It was seriously nothing. I took another painkiller and now I’m feeling nice and loopy.”
He gives me a lopsided grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. But at least he’s looking at me. I search his gaze for answers and notice a tightness around his mouth that I attribute to pain. Whatever happened tonight can wait until morning. He needs to get to bed.
“I don’t like seeing you hurting,” I admit as we get comfortable on his bed.
“I know, but I promise you it doesn’t hurt that bad.”
“You were supposed to rest.” I slap the tape on his skin, almost not caring when he winces. “See, you’re in pain.”
“No shit, babe. I was stabbed, remember?” He captures my hands and pulls me tight against him.
His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. It could all be taken away from me—the cars, the planes, the dinners in really fancy restaurants—but I can’t bear losing Reed. Anxiety churns in my stomach as the true reason that I’m so upset bubbles to the surface.
“It’s my fault you got stabbed.”
His lips turn down. “No, it’s not. Don’t even say that.”
“It’s true. Daniel wouldn’t have come after you if it wasn’t for me.” Absently, I stroke the hard planes of his pectorals, down the shallow valley between his ribs, grateful the damage wasn’t worse.
“Bullshit. I’m the one who beat the crap out of him and then told his date she was having dinner with a rapist. His beef was with me.”
“I guess.” I don’t believe it, but I know I’m not going to win this argument. “I’m just glad he’s gone.”
“Dad took care of him. Don’t worry about it.” Reed rubs his hands up and down my back. “How was dinner?”
“Good. Very fancy. The menu was full of things I couldn’t pronounce.” Foie gras. Langoustine. Nori.
He grins. “What’d you order?”
“Lobster. It was tasty.” So was the langoustine, which I learned was a smaller lobster. I skipped the foie gras (duck liver) and nori (seaweed) because they both sounded icky when explained to me.
“I’m glad you had a good time.” His hands slow down, his comforting caresses turning into something more…arousing.
Ella
Dinner in D.C. is fun, but I’m happy and relieved when the plane touches down on the private airstrip. I missed Reed, and I don’t like knowing that he’s been alone and in pain all night.
“Want to watch a movie with me and Reed?” I ask Easton as we climb out of the back of the Town Car.
He looks like he’s on the verge of agreeing when his phone buzzes. One glance at the screen and he’s shaking his head. “Wade’s inviting me over. He’s got a friend who needs an audience.”
Callum walks faster to avoid hearing his son’s plans. Me? I’ve got no choice.
“Be careful,” I tell Easton. Rising on my tiptoes, I give him a kiss on the cheek.
He ruffles my hair in return. “Always. I always wrap it up.” He yells after his dad, “Just like I was taught.”
I can’t tell in the dim light, but I think Callum flips him off without turning around.
“You be safe, too,” Easton teases. “Never know if Reed’s gonna try to trap you with a baby.” I grimace and he winces. “Sorry, stupid mouth.”
“No, it’s fine. Besides, she’s going to take that paternity test, so we’ll know who the father of the demon spawn is in a few days, right? Or a week.”
Easton hesitates. “You sure it’s not Reed’s?”
“He swears it isn’t his.”
“So it’s my dad’s?”
It’s my turn to hesitate. I wish I wasn’t keeping these secrets. I don’t know why Callum doesn’t tell his sons about the vasectomy. “No, I don’t think it’s his either.”
Easton exhales in a rush. “Good. We only have room for one more Royal in the house and you’re it.” Then he gives me a sweet kiss on the forehead and sprints for his truck.
Inside, the twins have taken themselves to parts unknown. Callum’s light is on in his office. The upstairs hallway leading to my bedroom—and Reed’s—is lit softly, and the quiet walk up the stairs is eerily similar to the night I found Brooke and Reed together. At the top, I stare down the long hall and my heart pounds a little faster.
I remind myself that things weren’t what I thought they were last time and that there’s no reason for anyone to be in Reed’s room but him. Still, my heart’s beating fast and my palms are damp with sweat when I arrive at his door.
“Reed?” I call out.
“In the bathroom,” comes his muffled response.
I breathe a sigh of relief and twist the knob. The room is empty, but light spills out of the half-open door to his private bath. I stick my head in, gasping when I spot him.
His bandage is off and there are bloody gauze pads on the sink. “Oh my God! What happened?”
“I pulled a couple stitches. Just changing the bandage.” He tosses the pink-stained dressing into the wastebasket and slaps the fresh white bandage onto his side. “Help me tape it up?”
I’m beside him in a heartbeat, a frown on my face as I pick up the roll of medical tape off the vanity. “How did this happen? Were you moving around a lot?”
“Not really.”
I spear him with narrowed eyes. That wasn’t a denial; it was an evasion. “Liar.”
“I moved a bit,” he concedes. “It’s no big deal.”
His blue eyes are hooded and dark. Was he downstairs working the bag? Still beating himself up over Brooke? As I rip a piece of tape, I peek at his knuckles, but they don’t look bruised.
“I knew I should have stayed behind,” I grumble. “You needed me. What were you doing while I was gone? Lifting weights?"
Instead of answering, he leans down and kisses me, hard and brief. Pulling away, he says, “I swear it was nothing. I was reaching for something, felt my stitches pull, and here I am.”
I purse my lips. “You’re not telling me something. I thought we had a no secrets rule.”
“Let’s not fight, baby.” He grabs my wrist and tugs me out of the bathroom and over to the bed. “It was seriously nothing. I took another painkiller and now I’m feeling nice and loopy.”
He gives me a lopsided grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. But at least he’s looking at me. I search his gaze for answers and notice a tightness around his mouth that I attribute to pain. Whatever happened tonight can wait until morning. He needs to get to bed.
“I don’t like seeing you hurting,” I admit as we get comfortable on his bed.
“I know, but I promise you it doesn’t hurt that bad.”
“You were supposed to rest.” I slap the tape on his skin, almost not caring when he winces. “See, you’re in pain.”
“No shit, babe. I was stabbed, remember?” He captures my hands and pulls me tight against him.
His chest rises and falls in a steady rhythm. It could all be taken away from me—the cars, the planes, the dinners in really fancy restaurants—but I can’t bear losing Reed. Anxiety churns in my stomach as the true reason that I’m so upset bubbles to the surface.
“It’s my fault you got stabbed.”
His lips turn down. “No, it’s not. Don’t even say that.”
“It’s true. Daniel wouldn’t have come after you if it wasn’t for me.” Absently, I stroke the hard planes of his pectorals, down the shallow valley between his ribs, grateful the damage wasn’t worse.
“Bullshit. I’m the one who beat the crap out of him and then told his date she was having dinner with a rapist. His beef was with me.”
“I guess.” I don’t believe it, but I know I’m not going to win this argument. “I’m just glad he’s gone.”
“Dad took care of him. Don’t worry about it.” Reed rubs his hands up and down my back. “How was dinner?”
“Good. Very fancy. The menu was full of things I couldn’t pronounce.” Foie gras. Langoustine. Nori.
He grins. “What’d you order?”
“Lobster. It was tasty.” So was the langoustine, which I learned was a smaller lobster. I skipped the foie gras (duck liver) and nori (seaweed) because they both sounded icky when explained to me.
“I’m glad you had a good time.” His hands slow down, his comforting caresses turning into something more…arousing.
