Page 43 of Filthy Rich Daddies

She sees us, and the blanket cocoon unravels. Tears flood, silent at first then noisy. She stands, wobbling. Tic reaches her first, a gentle hand to elbow. She melts forward. I think she’s going to faint. Dean’s there in half a second to support the opposite shoulder. I hover, an extra appendage, until her gaze shifts to me. I grin small. “Hey there.”

She reaches with a bruised wrist. I hold it as precious cargo, and she clutches back hard. We become a human safety-net sculpture.

“Okay?” Dean murmurs.

She sniffles, laughs, and shakes her head. “No.”

We guide her to the bed, and Tic locks the doorknob.

Dean kneels, doctor-dad mode. “Are you in any pain?”

“Head’s migraine-ish, shin’s sore. Heart absent. Like my brain.” Good sign—sarcasm module still operational.

I take in the room. There’s a sink with a coffee maker and a few snacks in the far corner beneath the window that offers a view of the forest. Two beds, hers and Arabella’s, no doubt. Not much more.

Dean stands. “Let me make you some tea. Painkillers we should know about?”

“Yeah. Next dose at seven.”

I hover till Tic gestures me down. I perch on the ottoman, knees bouncing. “We have a physician on tele-deck if anything feels off.”

She nods, eyes pooling again. “So, Arabella really told you guys?”

I nod.

“Thought that was a concussion nightmare. Hoped it was.”

“It’s better that we know,” Tic says, carefully sitting on the bed next to her. “That way, we can help.”

Her blanket slides, and the bruise glowers on her leg. She’s wearing only a long T-shirt and those thick socks, so I see all of the purple anger on her shin. Fury ticks again, but she flinches when she catches me glaring at nothing.

“Sorry. I’m just pissed at the asshole who did that to you.”

She offers a small smile at that.

Dean breaks the silence. “We can talk about details when you want. Or not talk at all.” His gaze meets mine and Tic’s. “It’s all your choice.”

She sets the mug on the table, inhaling shakily. “I can’t think. My brain loops to worst-worst-case scenarios. Can you…turn it off for a while?”

There’s vulnerability in her voice that crackles like old vinyl. She wants a headspace purge. Not conversation, not analysis. Pure emotional bandwidth cuddling, maybe distraction.

“There are a thousand ways we can turn it off for you,” Tic says. “But we didn’t bring our bags of tricks.”

She snorts at that. “The first time…we didn’t use any of yourtricks.”

I swallow, wanting to make sure I’m not misreading her. “You want us to distract you?”

Dean delivers the tea he’d begun. “Name your distraction, pet.”

That last word holds power. Her breath catches in her throat until she finds the conviction of her desire. “The three of you. Now.”

Something lifts in my chest the moment I know she wants us, and I don’t know who’s naked first, but it might be me. I’m on the ottoman still, my eyes in line with her navel as I skim my hands over the outside of her calves, her thighs.

Dean sets the tea on the nightstand before gently helping her up the bed. I follow, maintaining contact with her skin. Touching Thalassa calms something in my bones. On an upward sweep—careful to avoid her bruises—I hook my hands on the hem of her T-shirt and lift.

White cotton panties and thick socks and nothing else.

Atticus lies next to her and cups her jaw to turn her face to him. He murmurs, “You’re sure?”