Page 30 of My Ex’s Billionaire Brothers (Forbidden Hearts #5)

THEO

Hunter’s muffled voice slips beneath Anya’s bedroom door like a slow tide. A few hushed words, a sniff, then a murmured joke only she can hear.

I stand ten feet away, back against the wall, arms folded so tightly my shoulders ache. Gage paces opposite me, broad frame shadowing the seashell night-light. Every third lap he peers at the closed door, jaw clenched as if the wood itself is an adversary.

Downstairs, Mrs. Markoff rattles pie tins with unnecessary vigor.

The clank of metal is her war drum against nerves.

Mr. Markoff’s heavier footfalls prowl the foyer—he’s re-holstered the revolver but hasn’t put it away.

The entire house feels like a shaken snow globe.

Glitter still spiraling, settlement nowhere in sight.

I’m clenching my teeth. It’s hard not to after that.

I move to adjust the knot at my throat—a habit from boardroom days, even though I’m wearing a simple Henley rather than a tie. No knot to adjust, but old habits, I suppose. “We give them space,” I remind myself aloud for the second time.

Gage stops pacing long enough to arch a brow. “We’ve given them fifteen minutes of space,” he growls under his breath. “That’s fourteen more than Hunter ever uses to fix anything.”

“It’s Anya who needs the time, not Hunter.” I check my watch again. I know the time. It slips by slower and faster than I’d like it to right now.

Fresh footsteps tromp upstairs—Mrs. Markoff, apron strings fluttering, face pale.

She glances at Anya’s door with mother-radar, then turns to us.

“Boys,” she says in a hush that still carries authority, “my husband and I are going to a friend’s house tonight.

Give you the run of the house, so you can figure out…

” She flaps one flour-dusted hand, searching for a neutral noun. “…everything.”

I blink. “Ma’am, you don’t have to vacate your own home. Calvin’s gone, and we’re checking doors.”

Gage firmly declares, “We’re staying up all night, regardless of whether you’re here or somewhere else. We won’t let him breach the perimeter again.”

She pets a strand of hair back into her bun. “I know. But nerves are frayed. Alexei thinks a change of walls for twelve hours will keep him from throttling someone.” A rueful smile. “Or from polishing that pistol again.”

Gage frowns. “Your husband is okay with leaving Anya here with—” He waves at the hallway and, implicitly, at us.

“As okay as a father can be when three suitors are under his roof.” The twinkle in her eye says she knows exactly how loaded that statement is. “But he’s done worse trust falls. Those pickets you drilled earlier impressed him.”

Gage opens his mouth. No sound emerges at first. “Huh.”

Mrs. Markoff pats my forearm as though smoothing a tablecloth. “When we come back tomorrow after the morning parade, I hope there’s peace.”

Before I can craft a polished reply, Mr. Markoff appears at the top of the stairs carrying a small overnight bag and a neatly folded quilt. He looks at Gage—pointedly—then at me, then toward Anya’s door. “She is safe?” It’s both question and warning.

“She is,” I answer.

“Then we go.” He nods once, a curt military motion. To Gage, he adds, “The front lock jiggles.” The unspoken make sure the house is secure hangs between them.

“I’ll see to it,” Gage says. He offers his hand. Mr. Markoff takes it—two men sealing a pact of provisional trust.

Seconds later, the front door snicks shut, and gravel crunches as their sedan rolls down the lane.

We sweep the cottage with disciplined efficiency—Gage and I share the task. Better four eyes than two. The windows are latched. Lattice gate is braced, though if Calvin is feeling particularly spirited, he could hop it. When we meet in the living room, Gage exhales a breath that rattles the blinds.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Where the hell did Calvin get the idea storming in here was smart?”

I straighten a crooked photo on the mantel—Anya as a child, gap-toothed, holding a plastic goldfish. “I doubt it was strategy. More reflex. He didn’t come to talk. He came to reclaim territory.”

Gage’s eyes simmer. “Territory he cared about only when someone else claimed it.”

“No. When we claimed it. If any of our other brothers had shown an interest in Anya?—”

“He wouldn’t have batted an eye,” he says with new understanding. “This is a pissing contest for him. Calvin’s always been a piece of work, but after what he did to Hunter…”

I lower myself onto the sofa arm. The living room still smells of Chinese takeout and adrenaline. “Do we involve lawyers?”

He shakes his head once. “First, I speak with our mother—before Calvin spins a martyr’s tale about his violent brothers.”

I sigh. “She’ll want to quarantine the scandal.”

“She’ll try.” He crosses powerful arms, gaze distant. “But this? Calvin knocked Hunter out and terrorized Anya. We can’t let it slide. He could have killed Hunter.”

The thought sours my stomach. My brain scrolls through litigation possibilities. Restraining order, assault, trespass…I pivot to a smaller puzzle. “What now?”

Something unreadable passes through Gage’s gaze, but then Hunter emerges, blood wiped clean from his face. The swelling is down some. A relief. “Anya’s calmer, and she’d like to see you two.”

Gage’s jaw goes granite again. His steely gaze is on Hunter’s temple. “You need stitches?”

“Negative, Captain.” His grin wavers when he sees my expression, turns serious. “She’s waiting.”

The hallway looks less saccharine now that the house lights are off and only a lamp glows under the door of Anya’s room. Hunter knocks lightly.

Inside, she murmurs, “Come in.”

We file through—three large men negotiating the lace-draped vanity and feminine wallpaper—to find Anya perched cross-legged atop her canopy bed, suitcase handle sticking out from under the dust ruffle.

Now that her plans have come to light, that handle looks like a threat.

To what, I’m not sure. Her eyes are swollen but clear.

Still the prettiest blue eyes I have ever seen.

A single lamp shades the dolls into harmless silhouettes.

I sit first, careful of the ruffles, while Hunter drops onto the floor at her feet, long arms draped loosely on his knees. Gage remains standing, as if proximity to the door equals readiness.

I clear my throat—old board-meeting impulse. “Your parents left for the night. They want us to…talk.”

She nibbles her lip. “That was kind of them. Dad’s probably still furious.”

“Protective more than furious,” Gage says, leaning against the bedpost. “He’s not ecstatic about”—he gestures among us—“whatever we three are. But your mother’s more open-minded.” He smiles faintly.

“She did like having extra dishwashers.” Hunter snorts, then winces, pressing fingers to his bandage. “Even looked the other way when I over-sugared the tea.”

“You can’t over-sugar the tea, Hunter,” Anya says with a slight smirk. “You’re in the Deep South.”

He chuckles lightly. “I know your parents’ opinions matter a lot to you, and so do everyone else’s here. But what comes next is your choice, kitten. Always.”

Anya’s smile returns briefly but fades. “I don’t know what to call…this.” She gestures at us again. “But I know what I want.” She squares her shoulders, sitting up. “I want you. All of you. I tried to keep it casual, but?—”

“Same,” Hunter blurts.

Gage echoes, “Same,” almost simultaneously.

I add my own “and same,” before we all share a sheepish laugh. Knowing that we all want this puts some part of me at ease, but that doesn’t settle the details.

Gage scrubs his jaw. “But we did set ground rules for a reason, Anya. Casual, no feelings, wrap up in Castle Beach. You’ve had a rough few days. It’s easy to get attached to the first safe harbor?—”

She cuts him off with a shake of her head. “Don’t do that. I’m not a child. I know how I feel…how I’ve felt.”

She swallows and takes a breath, like she’s nervous again. What else could there be?

“I met you at the family Christmas two years ago.” Another deep breath. “And I’ve crushed on you three since then. But I buried it. Being around you this week”—her voice hitches—“poured jet fuel on an old ember. This isn’t a rebound for me. I want you all to know that.”

Gage’s mouth opens, closes. He paces one step, then admits, “The gala where you met Calvin? You remember that night?”

“Of course. He swept me off my feet, the asshole.”

“I spotted you across the ballroom and told Calvin, ‘That’s the kind of woman you marry.’ He distracted me, and introduced himself to you instead. I stayed silent.” His eyes darken. “I don’t have many regrets in life, but that’s one of them.”

She gasps, hand over her mouth. “Calvin always wanted what wasn’t his. That’s probably why he’s dating Brenna now. She’s married.”

Shit. She knows? I glance at Hunter, who mutters under his breath, “Fuck.”

She smiles at him. “You think I didn’t notice that you tinkered with my phone? I reset it the second you gave it back.”

Hunter feigns offense. “I’m losing my touch.”

Laughter—thin but real—ripples before settling into expectancy. Anya’s gaze seeks mine. “And the future? What…what do we do now?”

Gage pulls out a chair from her vanity table. “Question for the group. Do we commit to exploring this, long-term? All of us are serious?”

“Hell yes,” Hunter says, offering his hand to her palm-up. She places hers atop it. Gage rests his broad hand over both, and I add mine last. The four palms feel improbably right—an unstable molecule that somehow balances.

This is uncharted territory for me and my brothers. We’ve fooled around or performed kink with the same woman—or women —multiple times. It was fun, like playing a round of tennis with them. There was a sense that one of us would say, “Good game,” afterward.

Seriously dating the same woman is a completely different kettle of fish. And yet, I couldn’t pull out of this if my life depended on it.