Page 159 of Jace
I won’t let goof Vivian’s hand, her right hand, wearing my Russian wedding ring.
I hold it as she holds our tiny future when we greet the imposing line of kings waiting for us downstairs.
Their hands clasped. Brows lowered. Lips curled. Fuck, they’re a menacing sight, causing scared-shitless eyes, I know.
Axel. Nash. Sire. Grant. Nick. Loch.
The Queen steps in front of them while Sasha flanks Loch. Only a fool would underestimate our sister.
“We’re here for you.” Mom’s deep gaze searches mine, then Vivian’s, then warmly glances down at the pregnancy test clasped in Vivian’s other hand. “Allof you. And I know what you want to do.” Mom addresses me before focusing on Vivian. “But you’re the queen, the lioness, and we’re your pride. Say the word, and we’ll fulfill it.”
Mom’s right.
I’m ready to blaze a warpath for Vivian, to defend my mate, cub, and territory.
But this is Vivian’s fight.
She leads the charge; she has to drop the match before I leave her past in ashes.
Lifting her chin, Vivian suddenly mirrors my mom; damn, don’t fuck with one. My queen will be a beast for our child, I can tell.
“I want answers first,” Vivian demands. “I want the truth. I don’t want him dead, that’s too easy. I want him to live, never forgetting that I won.”
Axel nods. “As you command.”
Nick’s massive chest heaves. “Anything for my queen.” He’s bloodthirsty.
Behind him, Luna respectfully recedes. She must’ve told them enough so Vivian wouldn’t have to repeat it.
Sire pops his neck. “Do you want him tolivelive, or just barely live?”
Grant raises his hand. “And if we’re about to unleash Jace on that little fucker—holy shit—who’s cleaning up the mess?”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
VIVIAN
There he is.
It figures. Even in captivity, David made his cage his juvenile castle.
Jace must’ve told the guards to go easier on him.
Candy bar wrappers are strewn about the concrete room. Empty juice boxes litter the floor. He’s been given extra boxers and socks, most of which lie crumpled, not folded. The toddler never met a room he couldn’t ruin.
Proof that men like Jace were raised right, to clean up after themselves, in every luscious, manly way.
And a man-child like David was raised by an enabler who cleaned up his messes for him, so he feels entitled to make more for everyone else.
But the moment David sees me enter the room, followed by Jace, standing beside me, then menacing king after menacing king, forming an inked army behind us?
He scrambles to his bare feet, the back of his shaking hand wiping the chocolate from his mouth, his knobby knees starting to shake.
“Vi… Vi… Vivian,” he stammers, scanning the threat. “What’s going on?”
I don’t answer him. Pointing to the guards, I direct them, “Remove the smell and leave the stench.”
Is it just my imagination, or am I already getting sensitive to odors? An evolutionary advantage, protecting my body from harm.
