Halfway through dinner, Parker picked up on the subtle undercurrent between his dad, Uncle Cris, and Alex. It was obvious that the two dads were taking cues from Alex, so Parker waited to see where the curious dinner get-together was going.

They took their brandy and cigars at a reserved table in the lounge. The ritual was familiar, but the subtext was not, and in a more surprising detour, it was his dad who took the lead.

Feeling like he was being set up for an intervention made Parker uneasy.

“Son, I’ve given Alex’s request a great deal of thought.”

Replying with a drawl, Parker snidely bit out, “I didn’t realize Alex was in the business of making requests.” He shot his oldest friend a dirty look. The ocular zinger fell flat because Alex had his force field up.

Aw, fuck. Nothing about this was going to be good.

“Maybe request is the wrong word,” Uncle Cris offered. “Considering the situation we find ourselves in, I’d say what Alex is suggesting fits more along the lines of ride or die.”

The three men staring at him nodded their heads and muttered things that Parker didn’t want to hear.

He fixed Alex with a death glare. “I’m sure you rehearsed this ambush.” When his dad nodded, Parker grimaced. “And as much as I’d find your lines entertaining, it’s obvious that advance preparation means you already realize there’s no way I’m going to come willingly into whatever Machiavellian pact you’ve sworn allegiance to. So let’s cut the crap and get straight to it. What is this about and why the intrigue?”

A Matthew Sullivan heavy sigh always made Parker squirm. His dad was one of the most even-tempered and thoughtful people around. Sighs signaled unrest, and unrest from his father made him nervous. “I’d start at the end, Alex, and work your way back to the beginning,” he said. “It’s the only way.”

Parker puffed his cigar and swirled a brandy glass that he probably wasn’t going to touch. Anxiety had a way of not playing nice with alcohol. He also found it disconcerting as fuck when Uncle Cris and Alex puffed away, sipped, and seemed to be having a silent conversation.

He ditched the brandy snifter and cigar. Without conscious thought, Parker touched his wedding ring and turned it on his finger.

“Okay,” Alex grated with a troubling quality to his voice. “Here’s the play. Bottom line, man. You’re sitting at the center of a mystery.”

“What?” he growled. “Come on.”

Uncle Cris leaned forward. “Parker, hear him out. Please.”

Instinct triggered by the worried thrum of his uncle’s voice made him blurt, “Is this in any way about Angelina?”

The silence around the table was his answer. Parker growled, and a red haze in his mind’s eye made the moment tense.

“Stop and think, man,” Alex said in a gruff tone. “If this was just about me or Team Justice, then why was Angie singled out? Why the wild goose chase over a fictitious past? Why the surveillance? Why was her birth plan questioned?”

He’d had the same thoughts but always returned to the basic premise that whoever or whatever was fucking with the family had its roots in Justice. Alex pinpointing Angie made him hella uneasy. If the object was to hurt Alex, there were far better ways to get at the man than through his little sister.

“It’s you, Parker. You’re a direct target. Somewhere, somehow, someway, something you did, had knowledge of, or was connected to intersected with Justice. And I need to know where that intersect lies.”

Oh, fuck. It didn’t take a genius to see where Alex was going.

“Alex,” he muttered.

“Shut up and let me finish. This isn’t a discussion, Parker. We aren’t going to waste valuable time debating your legal oath and responsibilities. Angie is in danger. We all are. Whether you realize it or not, you know something, and I hope to god you haven’t realized it ’cause if you have and haven’t said anything, I’m going to make you hurt.”

“Fuck you,” he snarled. “I wouldn’t ever put Angie in jeopardy, you asshole.”

His father breathed a heavy sigh and snagged Parker’s attention. “I told you,” he muttered to Alex and Uncle Cris. “Don’t hold back, son,” he then fiercely commanded. “Screw everything. Your wife and that precious baby are all that matter.”

“What do you want me to do?” he asked.

“Roman is coming for Finn’s extravaganza. I want you to talk to him.”

Parker blinked. What was Alex saying? “You want me to consent to an interrogation.”

Alex scowled. “Consent optional.”

The past sucked him into a flood of memories. His time at the Department of Justice included heavy involvement with the terrorism task forces that scrambled to get control after the debacle of 9/11. He was a frequent flyer on military transports between Washington and the Middle East, and he wasn’t ignorant about warzone interrogations. Enhanced or otherwise. It was how he knew Roman Bishop and why he had any involvement with original Justice—the team that formed during the war.

Looking for obvious clues was a waste of time. His head was full of classified information, making it hard to say what was important and what was crap.

Angelina filled his mind. She was pregnant and vulnerable. It’d kill him if any harm came her way because of something he may or may not have been involved in.

In the end, the decision was far easier than anyone could imagine.

“Fine,” he snarled. “Bishop can pick my brain, but it has to be private and in the secure room. The only thing that leaves is whatever is specific to this situation. Is that clear?”

His dad thumped him on the back. “Proud of you, my boy. I know that wasn’t easy, but sometimes, you have to weigh the outcome against the oath.”

There wasn’t a whole lot left to say after that. Uncle Cris shook his hand while they waited at the valet stand. “I’m trusting you with my angel.”

A wedge of emotion caught in Parker’s throat. Almost three decades of loving Angelina Marquez crashed into his heart. Would he kill to protect her and their baby?

Fuck, yeah.

Heather laughed so hard as Brody reattached her bunny tail that he had to growl at her to hold still.

“It’s Velcro, babe.” She chuckled. “What’s so difficult? Slap the furry sucker on my ass and be done with it.”

Leaning across the hood of her car as her devilish fiancé worked on her costume, it must look like they were having butt sex in a parking lot. Conscious that anyone could see them only made her giggle harder.

When future jokesters told the story about tonight, their costumes for the adults-only kick-off party were sure to be standouts.

Brody wearing a red velvet smoking jacket, a yachting cap, and holding a pipe made a very believable Hugh Hefner. Her Playboy Bunny costume, which was way more authentic and uncomfortable than she expected, brought the sexy in a big way.

A muscular, half-dressed gladiator strolled by. “Need help, Jensen?” Drae sniggered.

“Nah,” Brody drawled. “Got her ass on lockdown.”

Drae barked with laughter. Heather giggled and twinkled her fingers at him. He just laughed, shook his head in wonder, and kept on walking.

“There,” Brody announced as he smacked her butt and helped her stand. “One fluffy bunny tail for my sexy lady.”

“Settle down, Hugh, but keep one of those little blue pills for later.”

He guffawed at her jest. “For an erection lasting longer than four hours, call one eight hundred h-e-a-t-h-e-r.”

“You know me,” she exclaimed while totally vamping it up as they strolled toward the entrance of Pete’s. “I aim to please.” She laugh-snorted. “Or at least until there’s a wedding ring on my hand. After that, I won’t have to try as hard.”

“I’m glad you brought it up,” Brody drawled in his sexy man voice.

Not sure what he meant, her brows bumped together, and she asked the obvious. “What did I bring up?”

He chuckle-snorted, and in a hilarious teenage boy drawl, he replied, “You said hard.”

Oh, god, she thought with considerable delight. This was a great example of why she fell for him. He had a clever wit and a quick mind.

“Yes, I did, so what’s your point?”

“Found something … intriguing … on Etsy.”

She noted his pause and deliberate word choice. Intriguing was code for dirty. “Do tell,” she purred with clear interest. Winding around his arm, she strutted confidently at his side, hooker heels and all.

“Some clever pervert devised a restraint harness that is designed for the Tantra chair.”

Pervert, restraint harness, and Tantra chair were all words that triggered an instant thrum of interest.

“Should I assume you’ve already purchased one?”

Brody’s pleased grin sent a surge of liquid arousal where it counted.

“Oh god, yes.” He snorted. His amusement was evident. “And this guy has other stuff. Mostly Tantra equipment. Very classy.”

“And we are nothing if not classy, right, Hef?”

Feeling carefree and lighthearted, Heather was ready to get the weeklong party started. The tension from weeks of anxiety and being on high alert melted into the background. Tonight was about having fun.

A hired gun bouncer who looked to be the size of a standing grizzly bear stood guard at the door. This was a guest list party. Not on the guest list? See ya!

She didn’t notice Remy until they were right on top of the door. Brody hooted and pointed. “Oh my god! Frenchy? Is that you?”

Heather couldn’t believe what she was seeing. Remy was dressed as Frenchy from Grease. Her costume was classic pink ladies right down to a flamboyant pink wig. She carried a pink tote bag with FiFi peeking over the top.

“These two are on the list,” she chirped with Frenchy’s golly gosh enthusiasm.

“What’s the significance?” Brody asked.

“Private joke,” Remy replied.

The two put their heads together for a laugh and exaggerated fist bump. Heather wasn’t sure what Remy said to Brody when his head went back, and he barked laughter until she thought he might choke to death.

A second security guy ran a wand over them while Brody smirked and sarcastically quipped, “Really?”

“The Major,” was all Remy had to say for the chuckling to stop.

“Uh, Heather,” Remy murmured with her brows up. “How do you breathe in that getup?”

“I know, right?” She sniggered. “Jesus, this thing is tight. Either that or I’m bloated as fuck.”

“I didn’t know bloat fucked,” Frenchy replied.

The bouncer appeared to have a hard time controlling his laughter. Brody chuckle-smirked and stuck the pipe stem in his mouth. He made a dashing Hef.

“No bull riding for me,” she murmured to Remy as they passed through the entrance. “I’m afraid one of my tits will break free and take out an eye.”

It took Olympic effort to coordinate the week of babysitting that Family Justice required so they all could enjoy what Pete’s offered. Stork Affairs was charged with minding the Justice younglings in groups. Along with a crew of competent minders, Bella, Molly, and their new ringleader, Paulie, were stationed at the Villa with the twins and Teo, while the second group of Wolfie, D squared, Ryder, and Lily spread out at the Cameron’s. Kori Tate was allowed to commandeer an electric cart so she could move between the two homes.

The bar was already hopping. Finn’s vision of an over-the-top, haunted Wild West bacchanalia was in full swing. Xena, warrior princess, was standing on the bar, wielding a prop sword that looked awfully real. Finn and Grey cracked up as they tried without success to get her down. The Whiskey Pete’s crew dressed in classic Wild West desperado outfits. She glanced at Brody as he took in the craziness.

“Domineau is in rare form,” her fiancé quipped. “I sense that the drinking has commenced.”

“Uh-oh.”

Brody locked eyes. “Problem?”

“Um, well, uh, look.” She pushed his shoulder till he turned. A ruckus was building in the dining room where the mechanical bull ride was set up.

Sophie Marquez was balancing on Rafe’s shoulders while the laughing giant swayed and rocked back and forth, trying to knock her off.

What made the scene eye-opening was what Sophie was wearing. Or not wearing. She was dressed in a risqué I Dream of Jeannie outfit that put an awful lot of skin on display. The effect was far more X-rated than PG. Jace stood nearby looking handsome in a blue Air Force uniform.

Sophie shouted, “Look, Master!” shaking her ass and waving both arms. Heather wondered if the girl had unnatural spider superpowers because no matter what Rafe did, the naughty Jeannie kept her balance and wasn’t dislodged.

The cheering continued until Cristián Marquez marched into the middle of everything, scolded Sophie, and held up his hand until she grumpily climbed down.

“I need a drink,” Heather told the man at her side. He looked at her, hesitated, and then nodded. She wasn’t sure what the hesitation was about and, frankly, didn’t care. Brody’s presence gave her so much joy that she only wanted to concentrate on that.

“What’s your pleasure, m’lady, or would you like to whip up your own?”

She was a seasoned mixologist, having learned the bartending ropes back in her college days. Coming up with great drink ideas was fun, and she was working on something special for their wedding.

“Let’s see what Finn has up his sleeve.”

They made performance art as they walked across the room. She clung to Hef like a good Bunny while he strutted, holding the pipe in his mouth with one hand and the other shoved casually into the pocket of his smoking jacket.

Brody knocked some random guy dressed unimaginatively like Mark Zuckerberg right off a barstool and told him to scram. Grey was behind the bar, saw what her man did, and frowned. Sometimes being Justice meant acting like a dick.

Taking the stool, she carefully perched on the edge, grateful to be off her feet. She pointed at a laminated card on the bar for a specialty drink only available at Whiskey Pete’s. Intrigued, she read the description carefully. What would possibly make a drink exclusive?

Oh. My. God. She looked up in time to find Finn O’Brien watching her with a big grin on his face. Hooting her approval, she extended her hand for an enthusiastic hand slap.

“Okay, Beantown. I have to hand this one to you. Nicely done.”

Brody looked at them with confusion etched on his handsome mug. “What am I missing?” He asked.

She filled him in while Finn snickered.

“How can a drink only be available here? Alcohol and mixers are easy to get no matter what they’re called.” Brody nodded his understanding. “Well, looks like Finn found a special ingredient that is only available here. At Pete’s.”

Brody’s brows rose. “You growing psychedelic mushrooms out back, Finn?”

The clever Irishman puffed up like a blowfish and arrogantly strutted his stuff behind the bar as he gathered the ingredients. She hung on every move and gesture, fascinated by his use of theater to make the drink extra special.

First, he whipped a fancy shot glass out of thin air, juggled, and then twirled it before slapping it dramatically onto the bar.

“Ready?”

She laughed and waved him on.

“Bunny and Hef,” he drawled in an exaggerated Irish accent, “I present for your boozing pleasure; the Flaming Justice named after you know fucking who and the bodaciously badass Remington Bisset.”

Tears swam in Heather’s eyes. Finn’s tribute was perfect, and he hadn’t done anything yet except reveal a glass. Brody swept his hand across her exposed back. He knew without her saying anything or meeting his gaze.

“All top shelf, I’ll have ye know,” Finn continued. “Nothing backroom or cut-rate for my lady! Start with Kahlúa. Third of the shot glass.”

He poured the delicious dark liqueur and then reached for an ornate silver spoon that looked like something he found at an estate sale.

“Next is a heady Irish Cream, like me.” He sniggered.

She watched as he held the spoon upside down and rested it against the rim of the shot glass. “One-third shot, like so.” He demonstrated by pouring the whiskey cream over the spoon. It lay perfectly atop the coffee liqueur.

“It wouldn’t be a Remington drink without a wallop of French cognac, so next is the final one-third shot, this time using Grand Marnier.”

Finn repeated the slow spoon pour. It already looked so yummy that she licked her lips in anticipation.

And then Finn went for the gold. He produced an elaborate wood stand sprouting a miniature silver shepherd’s hook on which hung an ornate flask of something sparkly.

As if he was touching a holy grail, he removed it and held the delicate looking flask up.

“Phoenix tears,” he announced. “Only available at Pete's. Dried under a crescent moon for maximum effect.”

Heather gasped with delight. Beantown was a fucking genius. He uncapped the flask and sprinkled three times. A shower of delicate pinkish sparkles that she assumed was colored sugar floated onto the surface of the drink.

Charmed with how invested the Irish bar owner was, a tug near her heart reminded her how precious love was. She met Brody’s eyes and smiled.

The phoenix tears were ceremoniously returned to their holder before Finn made a show of stashing them behind a theatrical bar safe where he pretended to keep stuff under lock and key. She used the word pretended because word around the bar was that Domineau had no trouble bypassing his security. Once again, sometimes being Justice meant freedom to be a dick.

“Now comes the fun,” Finn declared loudly to get the attention of everyone in the immediate vicinity. “Any good 151 rum will do, but I prefer Plantation O.F.T.D. It clocks in at one hundred thirty-eight proof and will knock your socks off.”

“What does O.F.T.D mean?” Brody asked.

Finn laughed. “It means Oh Fuck That’s Delicious.”

He took a long stick lighter, aimed it at the shot glass, and whoosh! Flames erupted like a volcano. Heather clapped her hands and grinned.

Finn handed her a metal hat for the shot glass to extinguish the fire. She made a wish, because why the hell not, and put out the fire.

Then she hoisted the shot glass, said, “To surviving the flames,” and tossed the potent drink into her mouth. It slid across the back of her tongue and burned the entire way to her stomach.

“Glenfiddich,” a bellowing voice demanded. It was Alex, and he did not sound happy.

Finn started to say the now legendary put-down his family brought to Family Justice, but before he uttered little more than “Glenfiddich is,” Alex slammed his hand on the bar and snarled.

“Say it, and I’ll slap that Irish smirk off your damn face.”

“Whoa, Zorro,” Finn snarkily replied. “What’s got your breeches in a knot?”

“I’m a fucking huntsman, you dweeb, not a Spanish outlaw. Fuck!”

Brody chuckled. Alex glared at him, but he didn’t back down, and said, “Dude, chill, okay?”

“Have you seen my wife?” the Major snarled.

Heather’s curiosity was piqued by Alex’s emphasis on the word seen, so she started searching the crowd for Meghan. Unless she was imitating Lady Godiva for real, she didn’t understand why Alex was so bent.

And then she saw Red. After that, Alex’s touchy mood made sense.

How to describe what Mrs. Marquez was wearing? Heather covered her mouth to hide a smile. Dressed like an outrageously slutty Red Riding Hood complete with gravity-defying stilettos, the wife of Alexander Cristián Mateo Valleja-Marquez was displaying ample boobage and, for some insane reason, added ruffled undies to the jaw-dropping costume. Heather thought the lady had balls and was pretty sure the costume label read Insolence.

Desperado Finn slid a shot of whisky across the bar.

“This better not be Jameson’s,” Alex snarled.

Finn sniggered and took the shot back. He slammed it in one gulp and grinned sheepishly at his brother-in-law. Then he took a fresh glass and showed Alex the bottle of Glenfiddich before pouring.

“I’ll have one of those,” Brody offered in what she assumed was a gesture of solidarity. Brody knew an awful lot about insolence.

Draegyn swaggered by in his gladiator costume. He was making loud, menacing noises and inviting those present to try to best him at arm wrestling.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Alex growled.

Finn wisely poured a second shot.

Meghan strutted up to her scowling husband. She had a little basket filled with Halloween candy and was grinning broadly.

“Is he being a beast?” Red purred in a tone Heather found funny.

Alex responded by grabbing a handful of Red Riding Hood’s ass and drawing her forward. She giggled and plucked a silver wrapped chocolate kiss from the basket. Watching her quickly remove the shiny foil, Heather admired Meghan’s smooth handling of her unhappy mate.

“Open, Beast.”

Alex grunted and opened his mouth for the nugget of chocolate.

“There,” Meghan told him. “Suck on that.”

Yep. That was their cue to wander. She grabbed Brody’s hand, waved to Finn, and melted into the partying crowd.

The way Tori saw it, one of two things was happening. Either the building temperature was set to one hundred degrees or her husband was generating enough sexy heat to melt her brain.

Draegyn’s costume for the adults-only party at Whiskey Pete’s was enough to render her stupid. Dressed as a half-naked gladiator wearing nothing but a leather mantle, kilt, and sandals strapping up his calves, he stood out and for a good reason. The man was a certified eyeful, and since she was Mrs. Eyeful, Tori ogled him with open enthusiasm.

Her mother walked by in a Catwoman suit that Tori could not believe Calder let his wife wear out in public. The skintight one-piece suit was more Julie Newmar than later versions of the comic book character—a style that her vivacious mom pulled off with no effort.

“She’s driving me crazy.” A hoarse and throaty voice chuckled. Calder was doing a remarkably convincing Christian Bale Batman impersonation.

Tori playfully nudged her stepdad. “You knew the drill when you married her.” She sniggered. “You have to let Stephanie be Stephanie, shugah!” She mimicked her mom’s distinctive twang.

“Yeah, well, if she licks anybody, Batman won’t be amused.” He smacked a fist into his palm and sneered.

Finding the comment riotously funny, she giggle-snorted several times. “I think we’re rowing the same boat. Have you seen the tongues on the floor as my husband parades around the room? I’ve got my smacking hand ready should anyone attempt to touch what is mine.”

They laughed together and threw around some awful one-liners about nothing and everything.

“Check out my nephew.” Calder chortled. Alex’s glum demeanor apparently amused him.

Meghan opted for a Red Riding Hood costume, which probably should be declared illegal. The incredibly short dress, complete with ruffled undies, red cape, and mile-high hooker heels along with a dramatic rinse that made her natural rich auburn hair much blacker completed the transformation.

Alex was his usual possessive, territorial alpha self. Tori found him terribly funny whenever he had to deal with the effect his bombshell wife had on mere mortals. As the ultimate arm candy, Irish had mind-blowing curves and boobs that earned a second glance.

“I sincerely hope the bow and arrows in his huntsman costume’s quiver aren’t real. The menacing vibe he’s got going on suggests he’s capable of taking someone’s eye out.”

Calder roared. “With my nephew, I can’t think of anybody except maybe your stuck-up pretty boy husband who more richly deserves a mate capable of throwing him into turmoil with nothing but a smile.”

Pete’s was decorated like a Wild West haunted saloon for a kick-off party that sounded the starting gun for Finn’s weeklong Halloween Spooktacular. Despite it being a school night, the place was packed with energetic adults for the grown-ups only costume party, and that was part of Alex’s problem. Since this wasn’t a private gig or a strictly Justice get-together, he had to put up with people and a situation that he couldn’t snap his fingers and control.

“Oh, hey, before I forget, muchas gracias for getting the ball rolling on the Christmas wish lists. I kept poking everyone, but no one was budging. You’d think we could get it together and do one simple thing, but nah!”

Their eyes locked briefly, and unspoken words hung in the air. It was impossible to ignore the fact that the holiday season was starting while a potentially deadly Damocles sword dangled over all of them. The nagging sense of imminent peril was dampening everyone’s spirits.

A shout went up from the center of the room. “Is that what I think?” she asked.

Calder rose on his toes and looked toward the commotion. “It is if you think your gladiator is challenging randos to arm wrestle while he holds a bloody sword in one hand.”

Tori giggled and fiddled with the curling tendrils of her hairstyle. Dressed in a Roman-inspired toga costume that made her nursing boobs the star of the show, she knew how awesome she looked. She and Draegyn made a handsome couple.

She laughed. “The blood was my idea. To make it seem real, I used fabric paints and the darkest red my mom had on hand.”

“It’s suitably realistic,” Calder drawled.

“Yeah.” She snorted. “Well, if those slutty housewives over in the corner by the billiards room decide to touch my man, we all might find out how realistic the sword can be.”

“Draegyn St. John has always drawn the ladies’ attention. It’s in his DNA even if he doesn’t notice.”

“Oh, he notices,” she assured him. “I think he lives in constant fear that someday one of his legion of fuck buddies will appear, and you know what that’ll mean.”

“No, what?”

She flipped some curls behind her shoulder, screwed up her face, and waspishly said, “I’ll have to kill someone.”

Something about Calder’s expression and how his eyes darted to Catwoman struck her as odd.

“Really?” he asked. “Is that a thing? Killing ex-lovers.”

Uh-oh. Tori’s senses went on high alert. She’d been referring to nameless sex partners, not lovers. The two categories were a universe apart.

Now wasn’t the time, so she tucked her concern away and steered the conversation in a different direction. Waving her hand dismissively, she grunted, “Pfft,” and changed the subject.

“Are you guys ready for Meghan’s photo shoot? I’m super excited. Such a great idea! And I can’t wait for Kelly and Roman to arrive. Once they’re here, then all hell will break loose.”

Calder let the other matter drop. “The next week is going to be wild. Kelly agreeing to play a part for the billiards challenge is going to be fucking hilarious. I can’t wait!”

“We’re discussing her wardrobe.” She cackled. “She’s so tiny that I vote to dress her up with a Lolita vibe. Nothing too overt, just quietly revealing in a way that’ll confuse and distract.”

More shouts, whoops, and hollers filled the air. Tori heard Draegyn’s distinctive roaring grunt and knew he’d been victorious. The sound triggered an unexpected surge of wicked delight.

Her eyes caught movement. She glanced over Calder’s shoulder and saw the slutty housewife crew making their move toward her man.

Oh, fuck no, she thought. Sliding off the high stool at the bar top table in the corner where she was able to keep an eye on most of the room, she fixed her costume and gave her stepdad a kiss on the cheek.

“Excuse me, won’t you? I detect the dulcet tone of an oversexed St. John. Time for me to do my thing.”

Calder was happily laughing as she walked away.

Making straight for her half-naked gladiator, she swept through the throng surrounding him and staked her claim. He was enjoying the approbation and applause of his admirers when she surreptitiously stroked his bare thigh before moving in to say something.

“Husband,” she murmured. “I have need of your sword.”

Draegyn slowly smiled, and she could see by his expression that the rest of the world fell away until everything going on around them was barely noticeable.

“Took you long enough,” her sexy secret agent growled. “What were you waiting for?”

She angled her body and whispered in his ear. Her fingers touched the manly bulge beneath his leather kilt. The soft leather of the realistic costume made her senses wobble. Leather could be such a turn-on.

“I was waiting for your groupies to make a move.”

He laughed, stroked her bare arm, and looked around. “The tits and ass at three o’clock and moving this way fast? You mean them?”

“Oh, so you noticed, hmm? Draegyn,” she drawled, “you'll pay for that.”

Her arrogant, hot as fuck 007 oversexed husband had himself a hearty laugh at her threat. “What punishment do you have in mind?”

Tori arched a brow and looked him over as if he were on auction. “Punishment isn’t the right word. I think what you need is a reminder.”

“A reminder?” He was openly smirking, the devil!

Grabbing his hand, she tugged until he understood to follow and then left him to go find a dark, private corner where she could do her thing.

Did this thing include dick licking and a doggie-style pounding? Most definitely. After all, wasn’t that the St. John way?

Drae watched his wife’s hips sway as she navigated through the crowd. Stalking her with his eyes until she chose a destination, he salivated thinking about what she had on her mind. Victoria rarely acted without a plan. Even her most spontaneous brainstorms had some sort of coherence.

She looked back to be sure he was watching before slipping behind the black curtain at the side of the empty stage. He smiled knowingly. The old backstage dressing room was a hard to reach hole-in-the-wall—but it had a door that locked and plenty of room to release the fuckery she wanted.

He laughed to himself. His wife was a naughty seductress who demanded his dick to be at her beck and call. This was why they were so perfectly matched. He always assumed it was the man with unquenchable sexual need—an example of his former arrogant self. But good lord had Victoria ever opened his eyes! She was all those words the writers used in the romance books she devoured.

Wench, tease, vixen, harlot, wanton, flirt, vamp, tigress, and yes, slut.

Mrs. Draegyn St. John liked to play his slut—especially if she could dress up and go full role play.

A large hand thumped him on the back. It was that shithead Rafe dressed as Conan the Barbarian. The loincloth on his massive body was nothing short of comically outrageous, and there was something disconcerting about the long wig and leather band covering his bald head.

“My sword’s bigger than yours,” he hooted in a half-drunk slur.

Was he holding his broadsword in front of him and angling it like his dick? It was Rafe D’Alessandro, so the answer was yes.

An impressively leather-clad Xena appeared at Rafe’s side. Domineau made a convincing warrior princess. Like Rafe, she was also half-baked.

“Came up short again, eh, St. John?” Domineau’s snarl always got a laugh out of Drae.

“At least my sword works.”

Xena and Conan cracked up at his comeback. Standing around playing who had the bigger dick was keeping him from exercising his.

Pretending to see Alex waving him over, Drae all but ran from the hard-partying couple and melted into the crowd on his way to Victoria.

Along the way, he spied Cam and Lacey in their risqué Adam and Eve outfits. On every level, the couple’s costume was a bull’s-eye. Same for Brody and Heather. Hugh Hefner in a red velvet smoking jacket with a jaw-dropping Bunny at his side.

He stopped at the bar and asked Barry for a bottle of vodka, one shot glass, and a dish of sour pickles.

“Fucking disgusting,” the bearded hipster desperado complained.

“An acquired taste,” Drae replied with a touch of superiority. “No different than tequila and lime.”

“Yeah,” Barry agreed, “but don’t most people use olives?”

“Olives in a martini or straight up, sure. But shots? Shots require pickles. The more sour, the better.” Drae popped two cherries in his mouth from the stash on the bar. “My father’s valet was from Mother Russia. Anatoly Petrov. Great guy who happened to loathe my old man. Tolya would sneak me Playboy just to fuck with dear old dad. And he introduced me to Russian vodka. That shit eats your stomach, and you need the pickles to survive the inferno. But when you use them with premier vodka, the burn is slower and far from unpleasant. You and Shelly should try it sometime.”

He winked and chomped on another cherry.

“Now if you don’t mind, there’s a Roman goddess waiting for me in the shadows.”

Barry gave him a knowing nod. “You guys are gonna need to start taking a number in those back rooms.”

Drae laughed and rolled a shoulder.

With some careful maneuvering, he wasted no time making it to the shadows with the vodka, shot glass, and pickles. Toeing open the door to the old dressing room, his eyes searched the dimly lit space. On a short stack of stage prop crates covered by an old tablecloth emblazoned with Pete’s logo, his magnificent mate waited for him.

In her alluring toga, she looked like a modern-day Juno—wife to Zeus and goddess of marriage and family. He admired her regal, confident presence. Drae made no effort to disguise his pleasure. A smile crossed his lips as he remembered her when they first met with her fugly shoes and fake glasses.

“You took long enough,” the wanton goddess snarled. He almost said something, but she quickly shifted from a snarl to a pout. “I thought you forgot about me.”

Oh, yeah. They were going to have a good fucking time—emphasis placed where it belonged.

Common sense nudged him with a reminder. He put the vodka supplies on a barrel top and secured the door. When he slid the metal lock into place, he held his wife’s eyes and gave her the St. John leer.

Victoria’s pout remained, but it was plastered over a grin.

He removed the leather cross-body baldric that held his sword and propped the realistic weapon against the barrel.

The shitty dim lighting gave the setting an out-of-time feel. His wife channeled her inner goddess and gestured to the vodka. “Did you bring me a tribute, gladiator?”

“I did,” he answered gravely. “A bottle of fiery courage.”

She smirked oh, so sweetly at his intended challenge. “Are you hoping to make me more pliable,” she purred, “with a drink?”

Victoria had no need for assistance in the pliable department, so he sniggered and eyed her with clear lascivious intent.

“I doubt you’ll need convincing.” He chuckled.

“What name do you go by, gladiator? What should I call you?”

Drae’s head filled with all sorts of wickedness. He smirked. “I am called Sinjin the warrior.”

Not even crappy lighting could disguise his wife’s quivering when she sucked in a deep breath. His warrior name wasn’t something he felt comfortable with when they played, but this was different. He felt different too. For too long, he’d pretended that part of his life was a fading memory—something that did not fit with the now. But recent events and circumstances worked in tandem to eliminate the separation.

He was Draegyn St. John and Sinjin the warrior. After too long a struggle, the two things became one.

“Approach, Sinjin the warrior. And bring your tribute.”

Knowing she wasn’t missing a thing and that catching her off guard was sort of a joke, he tossed the shot glass at her. “Catch.”

True to form, she barely moved. Just one quickly moving arm and her hand held out like a catcher’s mitt.

He approached as commanded with the vodka bottle in one hand, the dish of pickles in the other, and a plan forming in his mind. But … ladies first. They weren’t being irresponsible and had a plan for the rare occasion when practicality was required. One or two drinks were fine as long as that was it, and Victoria waited to nurse until she’d flushed the alcohol from her system.

His dark-haired goddess shuddered violently with the first shot. He held a small sour pickle up to her lips that she sucked into her mouth with an earthy grunt.

“Oh my,” she muttered with a laugh. Blowing air from her mouth to cool down the alcohol burn, she raised her brows.

“Fiery courage,” he reminded her.

“Your turn,” she imperiously demanded. Crossing her arms, she turned on the haughty.

He adjusted a leather wrist cuff that was pissing him off and poured a second shot. Tossing it back, he grunted as it trailed fire into his belly and then slammed a fist on his chest to prove his manhood.

He chomped on a pickle, welcomed the tartness, and was breathing normally when she prettily said, “Again.”

Drae gave her his best feral lip curl. “Ladies first.”

Her head tilted as she acquiesced. And then she knocked back another shot without trouble.

After they’d each taken two hefty shots of premium vodka, he planted himself a few feet from where she sat. Then he crossed his arms and stared her down.

“I believe you had need of my sword?”

She rose from her perch to stand on a crate, and for a few seconds, she towered over him. Then she hopped down with his help and took center stage.

“You will service your lady, Sinjin the warrior.”

“As you wish,” he happily replied.

“But first …” she cooed.

With very little effort, her toga drifted to the floor. She was holding the gold metal belt in her hand. Drae smiled, took the belt, and bent to retrieve the silky toga. He draped both over a barrel.

These days, nursing bras ran the gamut from utilitarian to surprisingly sexy. His little goddess enjoyed her baby boobs and liked showing them off, but she was also ingeniously practical about it. The semi-revealing white lace made the most of what she had. He knew without checking that there’d be soft nursing pads tucked discreetly in each cup.

He wasn’t one of those guys who couldn’t handle what his wife’s body went through for the baby-making process. As a matter of fact, he was far from it. He was fascinated and emotionally invested and, as a result, was super supportive. Knowing that his touch brought her pleasure helped Drae enjoy the need to be careful and go easy. Being gentle with Victoria was an art form he enjoyed.

Bras and nursing boobs aside, the white satin panties that tied on each hip accentuated her fantastic curves. Drae knew his wife worried about stupid shit like stretch marks and baby fat, but he had a hard time understanding what the big fucking deal was.

After Ryder’s birth and an indulgent maternity break, their sex life resumed with gusto. As usual with them, they were playing with fire in the birth control department. Sometimes they remembered to grab a condom, and sometimes they didn’t. He’d come prepared for tonight, but that didn’t mean much. Being prepared and using his fucking brain didn’t always go hand in hand.

His lovely goddess was patiently waiting for him to wrap up the leisurely inspection of her body. Victoria had a fondness for showing off. She knew he was a visual guy and played to his desires.

When he’d looked all he could, his eyes met hers.

“Reveal your sword, warrior,” she commanded.

His realistic and involved costume wasn’t as easy to remove as her toga. First, he had to take off the skirt of heavy leather straps, but the Roman sandals wrapping all the way up his thighs remained, along with the wrist cuffs and a leather armband.

She licked her lips and moved toward him when he was left in nothing but a glorified leather diaper. From the waistband of the loincloth that fit like a jockstrap, he pulled two condom packets.

Victoria gasped. “Was it your plan to fuck me, Sinjin the warrior?”

“Isn’t that why you sent for me?” he countered.

Her wicked smile made his cock throb. She circled him slowly, touching him here and there.

It was a glorious thing to be desired, and he rather liked it. And Victoria went way beyond simple desire. She took adoration of his physical being to new heights. It certainly wasn’t a hardship to be worshipped when the devotee was so meticulous about her reverence.

She stood in front of him and stroked his torso. Her fingers weren’t tentative. He studied her as she studied him. A tactile creature, his wife sensed things through touch. The excitement generated by her fingers stroking his skin was beyond hot.

Drae sucked in a harsh, breathy grunt when her fingers swept around his navel. Heat surged into his groin as the oxygen in his brain and all the blood in his body redirected to his dick.

It took a minute to find composure. He took another deep breath. Victoria’s head tilted down, and he could hear her softly panting as the building passions drove her.

“You possess a beautiful body, Sinjin the warrior.”

He smiled. Or maybe he leered. Both were probable.

Her small hand fondled his leather-covered junk. Drae swore his balls swelled to the size of baseballs.

“This is for me, I hope,” she cooed and chuckled with husky emphasis.

Laughing at her audacious manner, he crossed his muscled arms like a good gladiator and smirked. “I believe you hold the ownership certificate.”

“I like this look,” she told him in a voice that left little doubt she was sizing him up with all her senses and not just her eyes. “Leather and a gladiator sword. Works for me.”

Inspiration hit him like a thunderbolt. He reached for the tumbling curls hanging down her back, took a fistful, and aggressively yanked until he controlled her movements. Her eyes widened as he gazed into her soul.

“I’m sure you thought this was going to be easy—and it might have been—but I’ve changed my mind. On your knees, woman. I have a dick that needs sucking.”

Did she drop like a stone? Yes, indeed. She also giggled and stroked his thighs while he fumbled with the leather loincloth. Busy unwrapping his hard shaft, he growled quite fiercely when her hands took a guided tour of his ass. He nearly lost his way when she looked up at him with his eager erection in her face and her grip on his butt.

“Did you find something you liked?” he asked.

“Warrior ass.” She sniggered.

Well, that one was a first, and he was gonna take it!

“Does that mouth do anything besides talk smart?”

She shot him a fiery smirk, sat back on her feet, dusted off her hands, and then pointed at his wagging cock.

“Tell me, Sinjin. Am I finishing or no?”

He felt his eyes blaze. His wife gave unimaginable pleasure with nothing but words.

He grinned broadly and studied her luscious lips. “Are you asking if you’ll be swallowing when I come?”

She snorted and gave him a dry look. “I’m asking if this is a warm-up or the first act?”

“What if it’s the last act?” he playfully taunted.

“Then we have to talk.” She placed her hands between her legs and covered her mound. “I need you inside me.”

“Suck me,” he demanded. “And if you please me, I’ll make it worth your effort.”

“Fair enough,” she simpered.

He pushed her wayward curls over her shoulders and cupped her chin to insist she look at him. “I want your eyes on mine.”

She didn’t disappoint. Her delicate hands mapped every inch of his hardness and rarely did she look away except to occasionally sigh and close her eyes. Her wicked fingers toyed with his balls. The way she twisted her grip around his large shaft made him shake with need.

Her tongue flicked out and tasted his flesh. He grunted encouragement and watched through a hooded gaze as she stroked his cock and devoured the plump head with lips and tongue. She was so damn good at turning him inside out that Drae was relatively sure he wasn’t going to last very long.

He put his hand back in her hair and silently demanded more. He was thrilled and ferociously turned on when she held his eyes and started bobbing up and down. Victoria was an oral gourmand. She was a connoisseur of cock—his. Watching her gorge on his straining flesh was too damn hot for words.

“All, m’lady. Suck me deeper.”

She went for it, and he held on for dear life. The moment he sensed his breaking point, he slowed her down.

“Are you wet?” he growled.

His dick left her mouth, but she continued to stroke it with her hand. Her smile was meant to be her answer, but he wanted to push her a little and see how she reacted.

Smirking with lascivious delight, he chuckled. “Take those fingers off my cock, put them in your panties, and test your pussy. I’d do it myself, but it’s much more satisfying if you do the honors.”

Shock and shyness—even after all this time together—combined to inject titanium into his erection. When she hesitated slightly, he tut-tutted, pried her grip off his dick, and moved her hand to her belly. Her surprise was just enough to give him the advantage, so he went for it and pushed her hand into her panties.

“Well?”

She trembled, and replied, “Wet.”

“Very wet?”

“Yes,” she confessed with a good deal of lip biting.

“Finger your pussy and then show me.”

“Sinjin,” she murmured.

“Do it.”

Her low moan as he imagined her sinking a finger or two into her warm heaven tested his control.

She held up two fingers covered in arousal. He caught her hand and lifted it to his mouth. Sucking the fingers between his lips, Drae licked them clean. He was leering and didn’t even try to stop.

“Do you need more, m’lady? Or are you ready?”

“You haven’t even kissed me,” she complained.

“Kissing is for after I destroy your pussy. How else will you accept my apology?”

“Oh, my god,” she groaned. “Sinjin. Please stop teasing.”

He held his hand out. The gentlemanly gesture seemed at odds with his throbbing cock.

She accepted his help and stood. He untied the ribbons on her panties and dropped them to the floor.

“Bend over the crate. The one with the tablecloth.”

To say she moved at the speed of light would not be an exaggeration. Her fantastic ass called to him as she positioned her beautiful body for his possession.

The small, dimly lit space suddenly exploded with the scent of raw passions. Sexual promise throbbed in the air.

Drae moved in behind her and rubbed the head of his cock in the wetness leaking from her body.

“Spread those cheeks, woman. Show me everything.”

She reached behind her and opened her body for his pleasure. He watched, mesmerized, as his fat cock teased her opening. The play of cock, pussy, and shadows made the interlude a carnal masterwork.

Gripping her hips for the final deep dive, he grunted with satisfaction when her pussy throbbed. Pleasuring one’s mate was a reward in itself.

Stroking with strength, he tracked every inch of his cock as he buried it in her incredibly hot and dripping wet body. She moaned loudly. He began to move inside her.

Victoria liked deep, full, penetrating thrusts. The kind that made her grunt with pleasure. He let her have a couple before switching it up with short and shallow. His wanton goddess might want a pounding, but he knew it was the finesse between the banging that sent her into overdrive.

Shifting his angle, he teased a spot that got her thrumming with pleasure.

“Draegyn.” Her groan made his cock twitch, but he smacked her ass and hissed. When they played fuck time games, he preferred to stay in the moment to the very end. The role-playing added an extra dimension to their already enthusiastic passions.

His lusty goddess shuddered violently and whimpered his warrior name over and over. “Sinjin.”

He held on to her and went for it with vigorous intent. She got off first. Slamming into her until she tightened around him so fiercely he grunted with surprise, Drae got caught in the physical undertow of her climax. Victoria was magnificent. She arched and grunted while he fucked her into oblivion.

Following before her trembling died down, he gave his cock freedom to consume what was left of his wanton lover. The sound of their passion was lewd and filthy. His grunts and her whimpers hung in the air.

When his cock exploded, and he emptied inside her, Drae realized that once again, even though he came prepared, he’d filled her with his essence.

Domineau didn’t realize she was giggling like a teenager until half of the lipstick she put on landed outside its designated area.

“Fuck.” She swallowed more laughter and tried not to sway. Now if only the room would stop spinning.

The paper towel she dabbed on her lips made an even bigger mess. Scowling at one of her reflections in the mirror above the sink at Pete’s, she groused aloud about the stupidity of drinking too much and then remembered Rafe had gone to the bar for another round.

That perked her up! The bartending desperados brought their A game for this shindig. The special for this evening was Barry’s signature whiskey drink made with a secret recipe sour mixer that packed a wallop. The damn thing was tasty—which explained why she drank a pitcher by herself—but also deadly. The deadly was responsible for her twin reflections and inability to apply lipstick.

Planting her feet more firmly to control her swaying, Domineau bent over the sink and splashed water on her face. She did it a second time and hovered there for a few moments while the water dripped off her face.

“Smoke.”

She straightened too quickly and had to grab the sink. Her eyes searched the spinning room, but she was alone in the bathroom.

A tremor of worry skidded along her nervous system. It wasn’t at all like her to imagine voices. Not even when she was drunk.

Adjusting Xena’s armbands and checking to make sure her boobs were still inside the sexy warrior corset, she shrugged it off.

After one last glance at both of her reflections, she headed back to Rafe.

“I’ll race you to the truck,” Domineau slurred to a giddily buzzed Playboy Bunny.

Heather reared back and guffawed so hard Domineau was sure the woman’s costume was going to pop a seam.

“Have you seen these shoes?” her amused friend drawled. “I’d get half a step and then face-plant.”

Realization hit her in the face. “Oh, Jesus.” She chuckled. “I get it now. That’s why guys want their girlfriends to rock heels.”

“What?” Heather squawked. “That sounds like whiskey logic.”

“No, no,” she vehemently exclaimed. “Hear me out. If ya can’t run, you’re easier to catch.”

“Holy fuck. You’re right! Those bastards!”

Domineau almost fell over laughing when Heather started shouting. “Victoria! Is that you? Get over here. Quick!”

Tori scampered toward them, leaving Drae and his sword all by his lonesome. “What’s up?” she asked.

“Men!” Heather declared. “Did you know they like high heels because the damn things slow us down?”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” Tori shrugged. “Sounds about right.”

Snorting with laughter, Domineau pointed at her shin armor and leather sandals. “Evolution is screwy. In warrior days, the women were fierce and deadly. But look at the current state of things. Do you think shoe ads are a ploy by the patriarchy to keep the upper hand? I mean, why not men in heels?” In her mind, the Bendover whiskey sours sloshing in her system made this logic completely plausible.

“See?” Heather hooted at Tori. “What’d I tell ya? Domino-no is right.”

Loud snorts of laughter split the air. Tori yelped, “Domino-no? Bwah! Instant fucking classic.”

When the two went to slap fives, Heather lost her balance and shrieked with laughter as she started to topple over. Hugh Hefner was magically there to catch her before any damage was done.

Always good-natured, Brody smiled indulgently. “All right, ladies. Time to pour you gals into your rides and get you home safely.”

“I have a chariot.” Tori sniggered. “And a super-hot gladiator chauffeur.”

“Ew,” Domineau grunted. The last thing she needed in her head was any detail whatsoever about Sinjin’s sex life. “On that note, I take my leave.”

She swung around, unsheathed her Xena sword from the scabbard against her back, and waved it around like a tracking device. Right away, she spied Rafael across the parking lot yukking it up at the rear of Alex’s car. He was talking to an inconveniently half-naked Cam as Adam from the Garden of Eden and Calder in his believable Batman getup.

Swaggering confidently toward her sexy giant, she walked into the middle of their conversation with no concern whatsoever. Grabbing Rafe’s wrist, she pulled him to follow her.

“Excuse us.”

They started to leave, and then she stopped to address the startled men. “Carry on, guys.”

They laughed as a group and then said rude things about her boyfriend’s manhood as she dragged him away. Rafe was clearly amused and let her know this by snickering loudly.

“Is this what a boy toy feels like?” He chortled. “Gosh, I’m not sure I ever thought of the barbarian as a fuckstick. Your ‘can’t wait to be bad’ vibe kind of changes things.”

“Oh, shut up, you big wall of muscle. That better not be a complaint. If you can’t handle it, we can try to play it platonic.”

At his truck, he pushed her against the passenger door and put a beefy thigh between her legs. “Bring it,” he growled. “Whatever you dish out, I can take, Domineau.”

She didn’t have a comeback and didn’t try to fill the silence.

He stepped back after a minute and opened the passenger door. “Thanks,” she murmured. When she turned to get in, a soft gust of night wind ruffled her hair.

“Wind is the enemy of Smoke.”

Gasping, she whipped her head around and caught Rafe’s wary frown. “What?” he asked.

“Did you just say something?”

His shoulders moved up and down. “No, but I was thinking dirty thoughts. Does that count?” Rafe’s lazy shrug and easygoing expression worried the fuck out of her. Was she hallucinating?

“Baby. How about we unstrap the scabbard so you don’t stab the seat?”

As Rafe rambled on while getting her sword stowed behind the seats, the shit running through her head wiped out the whiskey buzz. Or most of it. She kept her own counsel through climbing into the truck and relied on automatic smiles and casual conversation cues as they pulled away from Pete’s to head for home.

Willing her brain to clear took a shit ton of effort. The beefy slab of bare-chested muscle sitting beside her combined with an evening of heavy partying was making it hella difficult to think straight—but her bells, whistles, beeps, and buzzes went off all at once and created a clamor inside that would not be ignored.

Something wasn’t right, and it was more than her just being a little off. Being far from an alcohol novice, she’d consumed more than her fair share over the years with lots of those times being in questionable circumstances, but never once had she imagined voices. Voices saying things addressed to her. As Smoke.

A strange chill arced back and forth across her shoulders. The muscles at the base of her neck tightened. Her jaw clamped shut and locked.

Goddammit, think! Think, you stupid shit.

Her father’s voice reached through the decades. “Work the problem, Rina.”

She panted softly and flexed her hands where they rested on her thighs. Every nail dug into the skin around her knees. Work the problem.

As a preteen, she had been a pinball—bouncing from thing to thing. While ballet was her passion, she was also a normal kid. She was a good student, but the grades didn’t come easy. It took a lot of firm effort by her parents to make her buckle down and focus. Her mother’s homework helper style fell along the tough love fault lines, but her dad took a different approach. He was all about the process—breaking stuff down into smaller manageable pieces and then working through them one by one to arrive at the result.

In the hushed darkness of the truck interior, a song came on the satellite radio. She held her breath from the first note. Was the universe fucking with her on purpose?

“In the Air Tonight” wasn’t just a rock classic. It was Smoke’s anthem, and it fit perfectly. There were as many layers of meaning in the lyrics as she had sides.

Her heart thumped steadily. The live recording filled the truck’s interior. She felt each word wrap around her and squeeze like a boa constrictor. Her stomach churned. Afraid she might puke in her lap, Domineau tried breathing her way through the troublesome feelings.

“Wind is the enemy of smoke.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Rafe, take me home.”

“That’s where we’re headed, darlin’. Remember?”

“No, I mean my home. Take me to my house.”

The truck slowed as Rafe’s head turned to look at her. “What’s wrong?”

She didn’t know how to answer.

The truck pulled onto the shoulder of the road and stopped. He switched off the radio. “Domineau, look at me. What is wrong?”

Conflict, fear, and concern raged inside her. She didn’t need to talk. Not right now. Sometimes silence was necessary, so she said the only thing she could. “This is Smoke answering, okay?”

He nodded once. His eyes bored into hers.

“I’m sensing something. A disruption or a commotion—not sure which. I’m not drunk, and you have to trust me, Dallas.”

Seconds ticked by. She held his gaze without flinching. Then he put the truck in gear and started driving.

In her driveway, he pulled to a sharp stop and cut the engine. Wondering what would come next, she undid her seat belt and looked at him, but he was too busy peering into the darkness around her little house.

Sensing his worry, she touched his arm. “They’re parked next to the neighbor’s RV. Don’t worry.”

Despite her pointing out the security detail watching them right this very moment, he snarled, “Why the fuck isn’t this place lit up? Are you crazy? You need motion lights and a fucking yard spotlight.”

His angry concern was just what she needed. Rafe respected her need for boundaries. Playing the Smoke card sort of cut him off at the knees and left him no room to bitch. Griping about her lack of home security was his way of stating his feelings.

She let him have this one. He was right. She’d resisted the razor wire fence mindset and been deliberately lazy about security. The folly of her indifference felt like a slap.

“You can tattle on me to the Major, okay?”

Her lame attempt to be funny didn’t have its desired effect. Rafe was grinding his teeth. He scowled and didn’t hold back. “Goddammit, Domineau. This is asking a lot.”

Arguing about this wasn’t going to help, so she attempted to spell it out.

“I’m going inside and changing into sweats. After that, I suspect there will be coffee making. And then I’m going to close my eyes and go inside my head. Understand?”

He blew out a snort, mouthed, “Fuck,” and rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

“Trust?”

Another indignant but firmly stated, “Yes.”

She could tell by the tension in his body that he wanted so badly to say something. This was a new reality for her. They were a committed couple, yet she was asking him to back off. What should she do?

“Say it,” she softly murmured. “It’s okay, Rafe. Say what’s on your mind.”

“You do realize that by bringing Smoke into this, you’ve tied my hands.”

“You’re the only one who understands. I can’t do anything else when I feel this way.”

The kiss he demanded from her was deliciously aggressive on his part. Rafe was usually careful not to be that guy. The big, overpowering guy who could take whatever he wanted without breaking a sweat. He didn’t physically intimidate her, but that didn’t mean she was insane. When it came to raw power, Rafael D’Alessandro had it flowing through his veins.

“Don’t worry so,” she urged after their lips parted.

“Shut up,” her growly bear replied.

Smiling as she slid from the truck, Domineau grabbed her sword and flourished it for effect. With it raised above her in readiness to vanquish any threat coming at her, she dramatically hopped and skipped to the kitchen door before dropping the prop to her side and blowing Rafe a kiss.

He flicked the lights from low to high and backed out of the driveway, waiting until she was safely inside and she’d flicked the outside light off and on before driving away.

Pywakett wound around her ankles. Her purr was overly loud in the silence.

“It’s going to be a long night,” she muttered to the black feline.

Py swished her tail. The cat had kept her company through many restless nights.

Domineau hung the sword scabbard on the coat tree by the front door. It looked ridiculous next to Kori’s denim and Becca’s Justice jacket.

Her mind was calmer and clearer after ditching the costume. While washing off her makeup, then rubbing moisturizer on her face, she cleared the mental deck.

The sweats she grabbed were older than dirt. Having survived a zillion washings, they were soft and comfy times ten. Her top was something she’d taken from Rafe—a T-shirt that read Bad to the Bone.

Perched on the counter next to the coffeemaker, Py was eyeing a plate of cookies covered in plastic wrap. Not only had her damn cat switched allegiance to Kori, but the clever kid also discovered Pywakett’s strange affinity for crunchy sweets and made it a habit to keep homemade cookies on hand at all times.

She mindlessly cleaned the sink with a scrubber as the coffeemaker did its thing. For no good reason, she had a thing about water spots on stainless steel. The aroma of dark roast scented the air as the pot slowly filled.

Shoving her bare feet into a pair of old Uggs, she scraped the hair back from her face and secured it with one of Kori’s hair elastics that the kid left everywhere.

Faint sounds from the rear of the house alerted Domineau to someone’s presence. A minute passed before Becca stumbled into the kitchen in the middle of a gigantic yawn. Even though everyone tried to convince her to party with the gang tonight, the stubborn loner politely but fiercely declined.

“It’s almost two a.m.,” Becca muttered.

“Just got home,” she explained with a half shrug. “Sorry if I woke you.”

“Eh, no. It wasn’t you.” Her roommate chuckled. “I’m conditioned to wake up when coffee is present. A Pavlovian side effect to the military regimen.”

Domineau laughed. In spite of her half-assed attempt to keep their relationship strictly business, it turned out that she really liked the ex-warrant officer. Becca gave new life and meaning to not taking unnecessary shit. Discovering the no-frills lady had a firm grasp of vocabulary and the skills to use it was another definite bonus.

“I’m impressed by your Pavlov reference and know exactly what you mean. Old habits die long, slow deaths.”

Filling a ginormous travel mug with the coffee and a liberal amount of sugar, she waved it at Becca. “Help yourself to the rest. Look,” she added, “I’m going out to the garage, okay? Re-arm the house system after I leave.”

The garage was her sanctuary. A mini-kingdom that while inconspicuous might as well have had a skull and crossbones neon sign flashing keep out. Not only was the building strictly off-limits, but she also had a separate security system that gave the outbuilding a Fort Knox feel. Nobody had clearance to enter without her consent.

Hurrying across the yard to the garage side door, she triggered the biometric sensor and waited for the recognition protocol to work. Entering quickly, she glanced back and scanned the yard for signs of movement before securing the door.

An overhead light flickered on. She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes for the briefest moment before looking around. The large garage was the entire reason she chose to lease this property.

After a giddy buying frenzy at a local secondhand store that Meghan recommended, Domineau pieced together an eclectic hangout zone that qualified for She Shed status. It was comfy, oversized, mismatched, practical, and a favorite space.

One entire wall was part storage lockers and part crap stuffed on metal shelves. And next to her on both sides of the door was everything she’d ever need to keep her most treasured possession in tiptop shape.

In the center of the two-car structure sat her father’s SS 454 Chevelle.

Her fingers hit the control panel, and a targeted spotlight shined soft light on the classic muscle car that connected her to another time.

She passed by the rear of the car and ran her fingers over the cool metal. A little of her dad’s energy would be a real help.

The diva den portion of the space was cleverly placed on a modest riser that she had a handyman install. It was a garage, after all, so marking territory was just plain smart. The one-step riser discouraged wandering crawly things and defined a time-out area. She kept it clean and tidy, so she wouldn’t get lazy and start lounging there when she was dirty and working on the car.

The small elevation also afforded Domineau a picture-perfect view of the Chevelle.

Flopping onto the Regency-style sofa, she pulled her feet up to sit cross-legged and settled comfortably on the wide, deep cushions. She set the travel mug on a vintage black lacquer Oriental table. Pointing a remote control at a small sound system, she queued up some innocuous background music.

Work the problem, Rina.

Flashing images and snippets from moments in time moved in a three-dimensional schematic like squares on a Rubik’s Cube. The sweetened dark roast washed across her tongue as she sipped on her drink. She glanced at the car and the bins of holiday decorations she hauled with her from New York. Disjointed thoughts paraded in her head.

“You backwoods pissant motherfucker.”

A harsh gasp that became a groan of recognition hung in the air. Mentally parting the hazy curtain separating her from the memory, Domineau felt a thud of alarm deep down low in her gut.

The time shift was easy. The memory was not.

“Don’t talk to me like that, you backwoods pissant motherfucker. Just because you don’t have nuts doesn’t mean I won’t rip ’em off anyway.”

Domineau took a long, slow drag on a cigarette that she lit to buy time. Her eyes swung to the old-school analog clock on the wall. It was hung crooked, and the faceplate was cracked with a big chunk of the corner missing. She’d be honestly surprised if there was a better analogy for the dark suits and career uniforms that ran every show. Crooked and fucked up.

“I feel sexually harassed.” She sniggered.

Even though Sanford Backus was a small man with appropriately sized extremities, when his little hand slammed onto the conference table between them, the sound echoed in the room.

“Do you have any idea how much shit you’ve unleashed with your little rescue stunt?”

She arched one brow and fixed him with her fiercest glare. “If your people had come through like they were supposed to—like they promised—a rescue stunt would not have been necessary.” She stubbed out the cigarette, folded her hands atop the table, and fixed Sanford with a dirty look. “So do not lecture me. I realize you’re just a paid lackey, but for us on the ground, those who do your dirty work, we live by a simple code. No one left behind.”

“Agent Rivera, you killed the nephew of a powerful mullah. There will be hell to pay.”

She cut him off. “Not having it, and you know why? That little prick was so dirty, he shit mud. Your people knew that before sending in a team, so don’t act all sanctimonious. And for the record, Sanford,” she spat dismissively, “I’m not the backwoods pissant motherfucker. That distinction lies elsewhere.”

“Don’t go there, agent.”

“Oh, blow me. The senator isn’t Voldemort, and I have no trouble speaking his name. He shouldn’t have been glory mugging behind the scenes to score political points. His meddling wasn’t sanctioned, and we both know that means, officially, it never really happened. You fuckers owe me for cleaning up a mess, so stop whining like a bitch, and let’s be done with this.”

“He doesn’t like that you have a chip in the game.”

“I don’t care, and as I said, as long as D’Alessandro and his team never know how they got out of there, I’ll forget this ever happened.”

“You think you have all the answers, don’t you?”

Ugh. She really disliked little men who had to keep going. “What do you want me to say?”

“Stay here,” he snapped.

She watched him scurry from the room and barely stopped an eye roll. Lighting another cigarette, she picked a piece of tobacco off her tongue and sat back with a huff.

Her watch showed a different time than the broken clock. A low growl from the vicinity of her stomach made her shift in her seat. After making sure Rafe’s team was on their way back to the States, she’d taken whatever seat was available on every plane between the Middle East and Washington, DC. Her ass was dragging; she needed several hot showers, some narcotic pain relief, a new toothbrush, an American meal, and a real bed.

Sanford came back and hilariously tried to dominate the situation by crossing his arms and speaking in a voice he imagined was authoritative.

“You have to clear the matter with the DOJ. They need to sign off, and then you can walk away.”

“Who’s handling the anti-terrorism stuff these days?”

“Parker Sullivan had been heading up the task force, but there’s word going around that he’s pulling the plug to head home and go into private practice.”

Parker Sullivan? Holy shit. Why the hell not?

“He or someone from that team will be in touch. Oh, and the senator? He wants me to remind you that smoke is easily blown away by the wind.”

Domineau came crashing back into the present with alarming speed. She jumped up and started pacing.

It was Bracken. He was part of the threat, if not the mastermind. The old goat was an ambassador now. Everyone and his mother’s manicurist kept tabs on the fucker because he was that big of a dick, and the last thing anyone wanted was him coming after them without warning.

Oh, and he hated Alex with a passion that never made any goddamn sense.

The more she paced and tried to pick it apart, the more confused she became. There was a missing piece—there had to be—because no way was her intervention when Rafe got compromised a big enough deal for it to come back now. The mullah with the dead nephew was history within days of the rescue raid, so it was not like her name was on a hit list.

A sinking feeling stopped her pacing. Parker was involved. And somehow Brody. Was he sent in to take down the mullah?

Nothing made sense, but she was sure of one thing. Smoke was in jeopardy, but anyone who thought she’d be easy to blow away—pun intended—had another thing coming.