Page 95 of Hunted

“Why can’t you?” he grumped, but was already pulling his phone from his back pocket.

My hands flared, sweeping out as far as I was able without actually moving them, wordlessly encompassing the sleeping assassin in my lap.

Van rolled his eyes and opened up our text thread, waiting to type it out.

“Can you click the voice memo button, then hold it closer so I don’t have to be loud?”

Annoyed but compliant, he clicked the button and held it up to my face. I sang the words to the tune in my mind, staring down at Addie’s face the whole time—like a declaration she’d never know. A serenade she’d never hear.

When I was done, Van whistled softly. “How long’s it been?”

I huffed in disbelief. “Six years.”

Six laps of the sun. Over two thousand days. And it took less than a week in Adelaide Sinclair’s orbit to compose again. To have my mind overtaken by a melody; overrun by a torrent of inescapable words.

My muse shifted. She rubbed at her eyes and stretched out those pretty legs, with her feet ending up in Van’s lap. She blinked dazedly up at me—still half-asleep—and her red-painted lips curved up into the smallest of smiles.

Then reality crashed in and she blinked again, registering exactly where she was.

My lap.

“Fuck,” she cursed softly. “Sorry!” she said louder, then sat bolt upright like she couldn’t get off me fast enough.

Unfortunately, her depth perception was a little impaired after waking and my nose copped the full force of her panic.

“Fuck—sorry!” she screeched louder still, leaping to her feet. “Uh, tissues?” she asked a snickering Van, who reached for the box on the side table and tossed them at me.

Even more unfortunately was that the corner of the box whacked me fair in the dick so then I had to deal with a bloodied nose and a throbbing cock. Groaning loud enough to warrant Beck’s attention, I squinted as he rounded the couch, scanning Addie for any signs of injury. Finding none, he lowered the chef’s knife and turned his wrath on me, silently demanding explanation.

Before I could even fathom stringing words into sentences, a sound that could only be described as a giggle-snort exited the mouth of one tiny blonde assassin.

Ponderings of whether someone could actually be called an assassin if they hadn’t yet assassinated anyone fled my mind as Addie slapped a hand over her lips like she could prevent more of the most adorable sound I’d ever heard escaping.

News flash: she could not.

She spluttered trying to regain control—only succeeding in smearing mascara down her tear-stained cheeks. She dissolved in a fit of giggles, staring at Beck.

Beck, bewildered, frowned at me, and I was left fighting back laughter of my own as I looked between them.

In the end, though, it was Van who shoved me off the metaphorical cliff.

My overly-serious-for-someone-so-young brother—red-faced from the effort of holding it in—guffawed so loudly I was sure they could hear him across the hall.

I was a goner after that. Van, Addie, and I unleashed years’ worth of pent-up laughter, and Beck, despite himself, joined in, too.

“What are we even laughing at?” I got out between hoots, which set Addie off even more.

With tears streaming freely down her face, not even attempting to wipe them clear, she just pointed at Beck with one hand, her other clutching her cramping belly.

Or, I guess I should say, at Beck’s apron.

Because Beck—kitchen connoisseur that he was—always wore one when he was cooking, and today was no exception. This particular one was black and military-looking—except for the tiny white embroidery in its centre.

A gift from Van and me last Christmas. And one he wore so often that it was second nature for us to see him wrapped up in it.

Not for Addie, though. No. When she saw the words I like pig butts and I cannot lie stitched into its middle, she collapsed into stitches herself. And her amusement renewed our own—the gift that kept on giving. Not even the intrusive chirp of the oven timer going off was enough to douse our delight. No. The only thing that successfully intruded on our joy was not the timer, but the millisecond-perfect timing of all three of our phones alerting at once.

Beck, Van, and I fell silent, our faces falling in synchronisation.