Page 101 of I Will Revel in Glory (Death by Daybreak MC 3)
I just stare back at him, calmly sipping my coffee.
I’m sorry, I think, imagining that stupid sweatshirt with the cross on the back and wishing I’d been able to save Ms. Briggs’ life. I feel like a failure. I spent nearly thirty minutes crying in the shower this morning, but I don’t want or need any of the men to see me like that.
“I’ve seen him cook,” Beast replies, sitting on my left and staring out the window across the table. Now that Grey is gone, we can actually open the blinds and look out at the hideous orange sunshine and the smoky sky. The wildfire situation hasn’t changed, but only because the winds have been stagnant.
All we need is a change of weather patterns or a lightning strike and voilà, we’re in deep shit.
“I suppose having my own home like a grown-ass man saved me from the sight before now,” Crown remarks, turning his gaze over to the window to study the sky. I love his profile. It’s strong, powerful, noble. As if he can sense me staring at him, he flicks his eyes back to mine again.
“You did well last night,” he tells me, and even though I know that, by the rules of the club, I really did do well, it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like I got an innocent woman murdered by my father. Even though I’ve finally come to the painful realization that I love the man, he’s a blight on the very air he breathes.
“Mm.”
I continue to sip my coffee, pausing when Grainger slams down a plate of pancakes in front of me, and I lift a surprised gaze up to find his perpetually angry face glaring down at me.
“Eat,” he says as Sin slips around behind me, putting my juice down before taking the seat on my right. “I’m not letting you skip out on meals with my baby inside of you.”
“Fucking Christ, Grainger,” I snap, kicking out as hard as I can and nailing him in the back of the leg. He makes a growl of frustration, but he remains standing. Strong as fuck, even during a pretty grueling recovery process. He pauses at the griddle and then flips what must’ve been a test-pancake off a nearby plate and onto the floor.
Feminist creeps up slowly behind him, snatching the pancake before doing his three-legged trot out the archway and into the living room. He’s found a special spot in Crown’s precious leather chair. I’m sure the hair all over his furniture bothers him, but he hasn’t said a damn word.
“You don’t know it’s your baby,” Sin offers up, running a single finger around the rim of his own juice glass. His eyes slide to mine before moving back to Beast’s. My husband doesn’t offer up any sort of emotional reaction. Instead, he lifts his coffee to his lips slowly, calmly, takes a sip, swallows.
“It’s my baby.” Just that from Beast, and even though Crown makes a face, he doesn’t say anything. Our eyes meet again.
“Thank you,” I say before I can lose my nerve. It’s getting easier, those simple admissions of gratefulness. It’s hard. It’s the very beginning of cracking away at my shell, allowing small moments of intimacy that can’t possibly backfire on me. Initial steps, baby steps, into some sort of new normalcy.
“For what?” he asks as Grainger sits down with a plate of pancakes for himself. He doesn’t offer up any to the other men, but there’s a towering stack of them on a plate on the counter. Just in case.
“For letting them stay here with us.”
Crown just stares at me and then sighs heavily as the edge of Beast’s lip quirks up in a smirk. He probably finds that funny, the idea of him living with me and Crown, rather than the other way around. I know that’s how he feels about it. But I need Crown to understand that I get how hard this must be. He’s used to having his own space, doing his own thing, having his house just so.
My stuff is all over his room. Boxes stacked in the far corner, suitcases and duffel bags full of clothes strewn across the reading nook. And since his bathroom is the nicest and most well-lit one in the house, my makeup is scattered across the counter, covering every square inch. When I walked in today, I saw him standing there smiling as he fingered a stick of black liner. Pretty sure he likes seeing my stamp all over the farmhouse.
“You truly know how to test a man’s patience,” he tells me, this particular sort of warning tone in his voice that makes me shift and rub my thighs together. Yes, sir. I’ll be a good girl. I swear to fuck. Just tell me what to do. I feel like Crown can sense it, the way he shifts in his chair and narrows his eyes slightly. His hand curls into a fist on the table. “But more importantly, how are you feeling today?”
