Page 130 of Double Down

Today I’m dressing not as a poor girl, in ragged Goodwill rejects, or as the Titan’s plaything in a dress that barely covers my ass.

No, I want others to see me as a Titan, even if I’m not. I want to feel powerful, like they do in a suit. To see if I can harness that same air of sex, power and money.

I find an oxblood leather skirt and a black sleeveless turtleneck in the softest fabric I have ever felt. I keep my makeup simple—a brown smokey eye and just a little blush and a dark red on my lips. I leave my hair down, keeping the long, loose waves my men love.

When I find a pair of black pumps with daggers on the heels, I know I have a solid power outfit. One look in the mirror and I don’t recognize myself. I look like a woman who knows what she wants and will take it, no matter the cost.

I look like I am ready to battle demons with my men, and that is exactly what I intend to do.

I’m buckling a little black belt around my waist when my phone vibrates across the dresser.

Unknown number.

My stomach drops, then hardens. I unlock the screen and dismiss the call immediately.

It doesn’t matter, though. I know he’s not finished with me.

Which is why I head directly to the men.

The Titans are already gathered in Conrad’s office, spread out across the wide desk and long table with papers, tablets, and empty mugs scattered like the wreckage of a war room. They’ve been here for a while, and a brief pang of regret hits my stomach. I should’ve been here with them.

The air smells like fresh coffee and toasted bread from the new service cart in the corner of the room, the silver room service domes glinting in the lamp light.

Conrad looks up first. His eyes drag over me, slow and assessing, then his mouth tips into the barest approving nod. Just that slight gesture makes my chest loosen, like I’ve passed some test. Just as quickly as the approval appears, it leaves, and his jaw tightens as he looks away.

Before I can even step further in, Maverick is out of his chair, sliding an arm around my waist and guiding me toward the table.

“You’re late, sunshine,” he says, voice low but warm. He pulls out a chair beside his, pours a fresh cup of coffee into the heavy white mug, and presses it into my hands.

Then he lifts one of the domes from the tray and produces a plate piled with golden pancakes, drowning in maple syrup, and one solitary apple fritter on the side. “Eat. You need it.”

I almost laugh. There’s a death threat in my pocket, and he’s feeding me pancakes. His entire world is on the brink, but he’s going to make sure I eat. But at least he got me my favorite.

That’s Maverick. That’s all of them, honestly.

I take a sip, the bitter heat of the coffee with chicory grounding me, then set the mug down and pull my phone out. My thumb hovers only a second before I swipe to the message thread. “I got another one,” I say, voice steadier than I feel.

Conrad’s expression shutters as I hand him the phone. He scans it quickly, jaw flexing once, then tosses it across the table toAtticus like it’s just a piece of evidence, not a direct threat on my life.

Atticus catches it, then reads aloud in that clipped, precise voice of his. “Miss me, angel? God, Firebird. You have such pretty screams. Next time I want to hear them in person. You can’t be around them all the time, princess. I can get to you anywhere, anytime. See you soon, kitten.”

The room goes still.

Storm’s thumb grazes the blade of his knife, the sound a whisper in the quiet. Maverick is motionless for once, his usually bouncing knee inert. Conrad taps his fingers against his thigh, his gaze distant as he thinks.

I wrap my arms around myself, fighting the urge to shrink. “I don’t know who it is. But every single one of the threats has come from the same number.”

I wait for them to be mad at me again, but I don’t know why. We’re past that. I know this.

Atticus studies the screen again, then sets it down with a sharp tap of his finger. “We’ve got ten minutes before the spa opens. We’re going in, all of us.”

Conrad’s dark eyes flick to me, and there’s no room for argument. “Eat fast. You’re coming too.”

A thrill of fear and relief tangle in my stomach. They’re not shutting me out. Not this time.

Storm leans across, plucks a piece of bacon from my plate, and brushes a kiss against my cheek before biting into it. “You look like murder, baby. Sexy as fuck.”

I shake my head, but the corner of my mouth betrays me with the smallest smile. Murder chic. That’s a new one.