Zane simply says, “I’m just here for the tea party.”
Fuck, I love them so much.
Fischer seems at a loss for words. His mouth opens and shuts repeatedly, but no sound escapes him. After a moment, he nods once, his eyes searching my face, as if he’s trying to reconcile this new Ellie with the one he left behind. Eventually, he forces his gaze on the others and says, “I’m sorry. I…I didn’t know. I’m so, so sorry about Landon and Ryker.”
My guys remain silent, but I can sense their tension saturating the air, the way it prickles and sings like a live electric wire.
“How…sweet,” Aria coos.
I whirl on her. “And if you ever threaten my men again, I will cut you up into tiny pieces, fuck the consequences. Do you understand me?”
Her eyes shimmer with an indecipherable emotion. “Duly noted.”
“Now let’s go see our fucking room.”
Our “fucking room” is surprisingly large, given the size of the house.
Moonlight spills in through tall windows draped in blackout curtains, currently pulled to the side. The ceilings arch high above, painted a pale cream that catches the light and makes the room feel almost cathedral-like. At the center stands a grand four-poster bed, its dark wooden frame rich with intricate carvings, each post crowned with finials that reach upward like sentinels. The bed itself is dressed in layers of linen and velvet, all in muted tones—soft gray, faded blues, and the occasional deep green. A thick rug sprawls beneath it, patterned with flowers.
Bookshelves take up the entirety of one wall, each shelf bowed slightly under the weight of old volumes, their spines worn smooth by use. Nearby, a pair of armchairs flank a low table by the fireplace, where a few embers still glow. The scent of woodsmoke lingers, mixing with the cool freshness of nighttime air.
In the corner, a writing desk stands beneath a tall window, its surface tidy but obviously lived-in—papers neatly stacked, a fountain pen resting atop an open notebook, and a porcelain cup still half-full with what appears to be tea. Along the opposite wall, a wide armoire looms, its doors slightly ajar to reveal the edge of a hanging coat and a glimpse of folded sweaters in muted wool.
“Whose room is this?” Zane asks, obviously picking up on the same thing I have—that this bedroom belongs to someone.
“Yours, silly,” Aria says.
“Has Fischer been staying here?”
Fischer, who stands behind us all in the hallway, says, “No. I sleep on the opposite side of the house.”
“It doesn’t matter who once stayed here.” Aria waves a hand in the air dismissively. “What matters is that this room nowbelongs to you. Anything you need, I’ll provide. Just let me know.”
I exchange glances with my guys, one after the other.
What is she hiding?
Whose room is this?
I feel incredibly uneasy, like there’s someone hiding beneath the bed or sleeping in the armoire. I make a mental note to check all the hiding places before we get settled.
“There’s a bathroom here,” Aria continues, pointing toward a doorway opposite the one we’re standing in. “It should have toiletries and fresh towels already, but let me know if you need more.” A wide smile spreads across Aria’s face, and before I can react, she pulls me into a hug. My men immediately step forward, tense and alert, but Aria releases me before they can do anything. “We’re finally going to be a family,” she tells me, tenderly brushing at a strand of my brown hair.
I shudder in revulsion.
“I’ll let you four get settled in. Please let me know if the bed is big enough. I imagine you like group…activities,” she says, winking.
Fischer begins to dry heave from behind me.
And honestly? I can’t blame him.
“I’ll send some people to the store to collect some items for you all. Anything in particular you want?” She glances first at my face, then Dom’s, then Beckett’s, before finally settling her impassive gaze on Zane’s. None of us answer her. “No? Okay. I’ll tell them to just grab some clothes and whatever else they deem is important.”
Then, without another word, Aria leaves the room, slamming the door behind her.
And my next prison sentence begins.
12