Page 177 of I Will Revel in Glory (Death by Daybreak MC 3)
“Husband.” I take it without complaint, letting him lead me up the steps with the other four men trailing behind us.
We head into the clubhouse and into the sometimes overwhelming, sometimes welcoming, but always interesting embrace of Death by Daybreak.
I collapse onto the sofa with my arm around Fem, too tired to even bother trying to figure out which room I want to sleep in. For weeks, I’ve been switching from one room to the other in an almost mechanical sort of way. Like, if I was with Grainger last night, I’m with Sin tonight, Crown tomorrow, Beast the next day.
To be frank: we haven’t had sex the entire time. Not once. Not only was I hurting bad after that night—I actually spent the rest of it in the hospital—but my heart was broken. Still is. I can feel it now, jagged pieces shifting around like glass and cutting, making me bleed.
“Hey.” Sin sits down on the coffee table, putting his elbows on his knees and looking down at me. Fem curls his lip at the man’s presence but otherwise doesn’t move. “Do you want some orange juice?”
My mouth twitches slightly. There wasn’t any OJ at the reception. Plenty of vodka, whiskey, cheap beer, weed, and tobacco though. But no juice.
“I want a gallon of it,” I murmur, my cheek pressed into a leather pillow. “With a straw. Oh, and lots of pulp.”
Sin chuckles at me before rising to his feet and disappearing into the kitchen to get me my drink.
“Look at you,” Grainger says, kicking the leather armchair closer to the couch so he can sit next to me. He’s clingy as fuck, I’m not even gonna lie. I like it though. I’d like it a lot more if my chest didn’t ache with this desperate sadness.
I force myself to sit up and exhale, giving him the sauciest look that I’m able to manage. It’s probably lukewarm compared to the usual scalding sneers I used to feed Grainger, but hey, it’s the effort that counts. Feminist adjusts himself to curl into a ball on my left side, tail over his nose. He’s been extra clingy lately, too.
“Look at me, what?” I query with a lift of one brow.
“You used to be so fun. Now you just drink orange juice and watch Sons of Anarchy on repeat.”
“I have never once watched Sons of Anarchy,” I retort with a curl of my lip. “Are you kidding me? I couldn’t think of anything I’d want to watch less.” I pause as Sin returns with my drink. Beast pads back into the room on bare feet, shirtless and steamy from the shower. Some random Daybreaker accidentally upturned an entire bottle of whiskey down his shirt on our way out the door.
He takes a seat next to me, his blond beard growing back in. It’s a nice length now, short and manageable. I missed it a little, so I’ve decided he can grow it out for a while before he shaves again. He takes my feet in his lap and gives one a rub, making me groan in a highly inappropriate way.
Sin sets my drink down and then pulls up another chair, this red leather thing that I picked out. I also picked out a dining room table, but it hasn’t been delivered yet. I’m sure that Crown took me to buy furniture in an effort to distract me. He’s hardly had time to breathe let alone go shopping with his old lady.
I make a face as I grab the jug of OJ—Sin really did bring the entire jug in here—and put the straw to my lips. It’s extra-long, so it doesn’t fall into the orange liquid and disappear. I’ve been making half-hearted jokes about how it’s only half as long as Beast’s dick.
“You watched one episode,” Beast reminds me, and I toss him a look. He grins at me, reaching up to touch his beard in a way that reminds me of Cat. Fuck. I could barely stand the man when he was alive, but now … I miss him so much that I can barely go an hour without thinking about him.
“I wanted to see if it was realistic,” I suggest, just before Crown walks in, chucking his cut over the back of another chair and then moving over to start a fire in the fireplace. He’s getting more comfortable with the idea of us all living in his house—my house. But you know what I mean. Then again, maybe he’s just too exhausted to care about propriety anymore?
“If what was realistic?” he asks, before sighing like he could very well sink into that grave alongside Cat. There’s one key feature that gives away his true mood: that glint in his green eyes. He loves being president. As Grey was born to be Don, I think Crown was born to be president.
