Page 40 of At Their Mercy: Part I

“Yeah, they texted me,” Shay said sheepishly. “Sorry, Owner.”

What the fucking— “Fuck.” I groaned and scrubbed my hands over my face. That fucking sucked. The day was already going to be long as shit. With the ceremony, the chitchat, the standing up a whole lot, then eating, then speeches, then fucking kill me.

“I think his grief process just started, Daddy,” Shay whispered.

“He’ll live,” Reese responded, the coldhearted bastard. “You can go on up, though. Take care of him in the shower—but gimme my phone first.”

“Yes, Sir.”

So, he hadn’t read Dad’s messages, seeing as the phone was in the kitchen.

Good to know.

By the time we left for the big house, my brother had read the messages. I pretended like nothing was up. He glanced my way every now and then, brow furrowed, or he stared off into space.

Like always, I waited patiently for him to come to me.

In the meantime, we got busy helping the others with final preparations at Mclean. Macklin, Tate, and Archie were swamped setting up the buffet in the club area, and they weren’t nice at all. They put lids on fucking everything, to keep shit fresh, and they were bossy and didn’t let me taste anything.

So not only did I have to suffer in a suit in this humid hell, I couldn’t sample the food.

This was some bullshit ceremony.

We were expecting too many guests too. Sixty-four chairs stood out on the lawn, past the pool area, just waiting for the rainstorm.

Shay, Cam, Sloan, and Lucian were tasked with organizing the gift table. Two long tables packed with gifts—but Macklin claimed it was too messy. The gifts had to be organized neatly.

I dodged that bullet and got roped into pouring welcome drinks behind the bar instead. It was better than rearranging furniture, which became Reese’s, Greer’s, and Kingsley’s job. Predicting that we were going to spend more time indoors today, they made the seating areas bigger and moved chairs and sofas closer to the tables since we’d likely eat in here too. Walker and KC moved some decorations from outside to the low stage.

There were a shit-ton of wildflowers in different colors, mainly blue, green, and white.

“That stage better look perfect for me,” Reese said, pushing a sofa onto the dance floor. “Readjust the spotlights too. I want all eyes on me.”

Safe to say, Reese was enjoying his role as toastmaster.

I was happy they hadn’t assigned any other roles. No best man, no groomsmen, no whatever. Just a toastmaster and Kit’s brat squad friends. Well, Macklin and Tate were sort of like the wedding planners. Lucas hadn’t trusted anybody else.

Some of the others were miffed about missing the bachelor parties, though. Colt and Lucas had opted out entirely, which I understood. They hadn’t been bachelors in over a decade, and Kit hadn’t been interested. He’d had a sleepover with some brat buddies last month, if I remembered correctly.

“Three parts bubbly, Sir,” Tate said in passing.

Yeah, yeah, three parts of this…cava…and one part St-Germain.

It smelled like elderflower or elderberries.

“Can we place bets on how short River’s speech is going to be?” KC asked.

Reese grinned to himself.

I said nothing. I was busy pouring three parts sparkling wine and one part liqueur into over seventy champagne glasses.

“I got ten bucks on under ten words,” Greer said.

I rolled my eyes. More people joined in on the betting, and the options ended up being two to ten words, eleven to twenty words, a single word—Lucian believed I was only gonna say the word congrats—and twenty-one to thirty words.

Bitches. Maybe I should filibuster to prove a point.

Dearly beloved, the dictionary defines schadenfreude…