Page 33 of This Reckless Home

Some of the light dims from her eyes, a small frown on her face that I don’t like one fucking bit. She opens her mouth to say something, but clipped footsteps sound from the house.

“Honey! I’m home!” A man’s voice yells, full of laughter, and her eyes widen before she scrabbles off me.

“Coming, James!” she calls back.

James? Who the fuck is James?

CHAPTER TWELVE

“WICKED GAME” BY URSINE VULPINE, ANNACA

NOX

I'm barely through the front door, still in my coffee-stained work shirt from the café, when I hear voices in the sitting room.

Specifically a male voice alongside Blossom’s.

A male voice I don't fucking recognize.

Something prickles at the back of my neck as I follow the sound, finding Steele already in the hallway, clearly having come from Chuck’s based on the grease stains on his hands. He’s wearing a frown, eyes darting to the living room.

We exchange a look, both of us on alert.

“Who's here?” I ask quietly, a hint of a growl in my tone.

He shrugs, but his jaw is tight. “Don't know. Some guy.”

Something in my chest tightens. We move toward the sitting room together, and I spot Anatole coming from the kitchen, his hair slightly mussed, a few leaves clinging to his t-shirt and dirt on his cheek. He's scowling.

“That's James, apparently,” he tells us, his tone sharp with something that sounds a lot like jealousy.

Same, bro. Fucking same.

“Wait, the therapist?” Steele asks.

“Yeah.” It’s practically a growl. “The one who just announced his arrival by yelling 'Honey, I'm home' like he fucking lives here.”

Oh, this should be good.

We enter the sitting room to find Blossom curled up on the couch, legs tucked under her, talking to some guy I've never seen before. He's sitting close—too fucking close—in one of the armchairs that he's pulled nearer to her.

And he's handsome. Like, annoyingly, perfectly, rich bastard handsome. Probably mid-thirties, dark hair styled just so, wearing an expensive-looking sweater and designer glasses that no doubt cost more than my monthly rent used to.

He says something that makes her laugh — that genuine, unguarded laugh that does something stupid to my chest — and his hand reaches out, touches her arm.

Something dark and possessive flares in my chest. Ant and Steele stiffen either side of me.

This is James. The man who yells "Honey, I'm home" to our girl.

Yeah, fuck that.

“Oh!” Blossom spots us, her face lighting up in that way that makes my stomach flip. “Perfect timing. Come meet James.”

The guy — James — stands, extending his hand with an easy smile. All perfect fucking white teeth. I hate him. “You must be Justin’s brothers Blossom's been telling me about.”

I shake his hand, probably harder than necessary. “Nox.”

“Steele,” my brother rumbles, his handshake no gentler than mine.