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CHAPTER ELEVEN

Damien

“The cleaning crew is a liability,” I tell Gwen, the manager at McMahon Condiments. The small condiments company that we bought from her family. “Get rid of them.”

Normally, a company this size wouldn’t be a blip on BLF Capital’s radar. We would never be bothered with acquiring a business with such miniscule profit margin forecasts.

Except a certain Miss Aria Kimble—Liam’s ex-babysitter from hell—works there.

Or should I say, worked .

“The five of them?” Gwen tucks her hair behind her ears. Once. Twice. Her pale-blue gaze is horrified. “They’ve been with us for years. Just because one of them forgot—”

“It’s one of them today, another tomorrow.” My easy-going nature is nowhere to be found. My expression is steely. Deadly. “As I said, a liability. We need to hire from scratch. People who aren’t total fuckups.”

Rome and I are the ones who deal with them, since it’s personal for Liam. All it’d take is for Gwen to mention to someone the man with the distinctive scar, and the rumors would spread throughout the small business.

Aria, as dumb as she is, will put two and two together. She’ll ruin our plan.

We can’t have that.

“They forgot to put up the mandatory Caution Wet Floor sign on the plant’s floor.” My accusation is delivered in a derisive voice. “Good thing there’s one decent person left in your plant to have reported it back to me.”

This wasn’t a decent person. Nor did the cleaning crew forget any fucking sign.

The woman who moved the sign and took a picture for me got paid handsomely for her efforts. For waiting for Aria to go on her bathroom break to stage the scene.

“The rest of the cleaning crew minus the culpable one”—Aria, granted—“will be compensated for being let go.”

We’re not after them. But they’re a distraction. Firing them makes it look like we haven’t targeted this one person. That we’re cleaning house.

“Mr. Black, I’m urging you to reconsider.”

I’m too involved in our group chat on my phone to hear Gwen’s blabbering. Liam says we’re going to be touching Quinlan while she sleeps. Rome admits to kissing her.

He kissed her before me.

A surge of jealousy blinds me. It’s fucking suffocating, this thing. This strange feeling.

My Quinlan.

Mine.

The moment you planned on locking her in your apartment, she belonged to the three of you. Be grateful he didn’t bend her over in the middle of the street and spank her just be-fucking-cause.

That settles the green monster.

“Mr. Black?” A shrivel of hope can be heard in Gwen’s voice. “Would you? Reconsider?”

She’s mistaken my silence for kindness. Thought I’m texting the others, asking them whether she gets to keep her cleaning crew or not.

The only thing I’m considering is Quinlan in her bed, sleeping with the three of us there.

Jerking off to her.

We want her. We have a soft, toxic spot for our future captive.

There’s no use denying that anymore.

No use in continuing this conversation, either.

“Enough, Gwen.” My hardened gaze means I’m not fucking around. My hand slices the air between us. “You’ll fire the five of them. You. This isn’t a request.”

Her face blanches. She’s pale. Shocked at my abruptness. Over the year we’ve been the owners of her family’s company, I’ve never been this hostile.

That’s Rome’s job.

Mine is to trick her into believing we care about their legacy.

All I care about is her firing Aria.

Gwen will toe the fucking line.

“Wait, I—”

“Goodbye.” I end the call. Stare up at the ceiling. Let out a low curse and return my laptop and work.

There’s shit to do. Contracts to draft before I send them over to legal.

Before we head out to be with Quinlan.

Beautiful, sweet, and innocent Quinlan is ours.

So what if Rome kissed her first?

Liam and I will kiss her tonight.

That’s what ours means.

And when we blackmail her… When we kidnap her…

I’ll have her lips available for me all the time.

Whether she’ll be on board with murdering her brother, that’s a question for another day.

Now, for the contract I have to work on…

My phone rings on my desk, stopping me before I typed the first letter. Then I pick up my phone and see who’s calling me.

“Jagger?”

Over the years, most of the kids from the foster homes I lived in have fizzled out of my life. Those who hadn’t been tortured.

They didn’t go through what Jagger, Laurel, and I had. The physical and mental abuse. The pain. The scars. The need to protect one another. How I failed them some days.

Our bond isn’t as strong as the one I have with Liam and Rome. I’m still very much connected to them. Through our friendship. Through joined work projects.

Through our revenge plan.

“Dame.” Jagger sounds older than his thirty-one years today. His voice is hoarse.

“What’s wrong?” I’m already up. Already picking up my keys and heading to the door. My heart belongs to Quinlan, and I’ll be with her. Once I solve this mess for Jagger. “Someone tipped the police again? They’re close? Where are you?”

That’s usually what happens if the police aren’t involved. It’s an occupational hazard when you make a career of providing fake IDs. Some of your clients are trash and decide to turn on you. Not us, though. We need his business for our revenge plans.

That, and the fact that he’s like a brother to me.

“No one’s on their way.”

“Someone at your home, then?” That, too, happens every once in a while. Have I mentioned he has trash for clients? And his girlfriend moved in with him two months ago. “Is Nila okay?”

“Chill, super lawyer. Nila’s fine. She’s at work.”

“Well, what is it? You sound like that when you call from the police station. How the fuck am I supposed to react to that?”

No one matters to me in this world. No one but my people. I’m feral over them. Protective down to my bones.

Leaving Quinlan out there with Rex broke my goddamn heart all those years ago. But she’s been okay. She’s been a fucking pro. A straight-A student. A young entrepreneur. He might not have been the best brother. She grew up to be an incredible woman, regardless.

She’s been waiting for me, that’s all. In a few days, I’ll be the knight in shining armor I was destined to be. Her knight. As dark as I may be.

“Like you’d react to any hungover asshole,” he groans, and I could kill him.

Hangover.

“You’re a jackass, you know that?” I return to my chair, throwing the keys across the desk. “Start with that next time. And why are you hungover this late? Did you really just wake up?”

“Yeah. Worked late, partied later.” Of course they did. They’re allowed to do shit and get fucked up like I never allowed myself. “Anyway, what crawled up your ass and died?”

“For your information, I was fine before you called.” I stick my fingers in my hair. “Not my fault you decided your idea of fun is giving me a heart attack.”

“Jesus, mom vibes much?” Someone else’s mom, granted. Both our moms bailed on us when we were babies. “Or worse. You sound like Rome.”

“Rome?” I bark a laugh, the tension slowly leaving my body. “I’ll try to live up to it, then. Next time we meet, I’ll punch you in the gut. No gloves and all.”

“You’re too pretty for busted knuckles.” A woman’s voice.

Laurel.

“You two are sneaky fucks.” I lean back in my chair, smiling. Nothing’s bad happened. Everything is fine. “Laur, isn’t it two in the morning there?”

There, as in France. There, as in miles away from the sickening memories she couldn’t take anymore.

“It is, big brother.” We aren’t blood-related, weren’t even born in the same state. But I’d acted like one for the period of time we’d lived at Rex’s. Paid her student loans the moment I could afford it. “And since when do I sleep before quarterly reports?”

She’s an accountant these days. Has her own boutique firm. I’m so fucking proud I could cry. Except I don’t. Never.

“I did not. I didn’t forget you’re pregnant, either. You should be resting.”

“Pregnant isn’t synonym for dead,” she corrects.

I bet she’s patting her swollen belly as we speak. Her and her husband’s, Pierre. He’s a walking, talking green flag that adores my friend. He better. On their wedding day, I explained to him how easy it’d be for me to jump on the next flight and kick his ass in case he hurt her.

“I’ll work until pumpkin decides she’s had enough of my womb.”

“Right. Anyway.” I’m happy for her. I really am. I’ll be even happier to bury myself in work until I’m inhaling Quinlan’s scent. “You two have something to say or is this another we’re-checking-up-on-our-Damien call?”

Most of all, they check up on Quinlan. They’re on board regarding the revenge plot, but they worry about her.

They made it known before Jagger and I walked Laurel down the aisle.

“Are you fucking serious?” Her blue eyes blazed. Laurel looked like she was ready to tear at the chignon her hairstylist worked so hard to put in place. Her black curly hair wasn’t easy to tame. “Now? At my wedding? This is the time to tell us this, Damien?”

I laughed, then Jagger did. She slapped both our arms.

“Figured God wouldn’t pass on the information to the cops.” I shrugged.

“One time he did.” Jagger’s dark eyebrows lowered on his brown eyes.

His hair was cut short and brushed to the side. So different from when we’d lived at the Palmers’ house. Back then, Jagger had it overgrown just to spite Rex. He’d succeeded. He’d even punched Harlow when she came near him with scissors.

It’d landed both of us a nasty bruise under the ribs because, of course, I had to stand between them.

“Someone tipped the police when I was outside this church, and—”

“Ugh. Okay, fine.” Laurel threw her hands in the air. “You have my approval. You need our help with it, don’t you? Go ahead, ask. Pierre will wait.”

She rolled her eyes, hating to let Pierre wait. She did anyway. And I asked both of them for their help.

“Yes, it is,” Jagger clips, pulling me out of my memories. “Have you lost it yet?”

“About that.” I lick the top row of my teeth. “Does buying an island count?”

“Buy any island you want, Damien.” Laurel laughs. She’s used to my bullshit. “We’re talking about a certain someone. A certain woman.”

“Yeah, is she, uh—walking among us?” A mangled way to ask if Quinlan’s alive from Jagger.

“She was always meant to be, assholes.”

“Cool, cool,” Jagger grunts.

“Keep that—” Laurel’s yawn cuts through her sentence. “Up. Don’t do anything crazy. She’s special to us too.”

Special. For them, maybe.

For me, she’s an obsession.

“Your bed and husband are calling,” I say instead of starting our usual banter. “And you, Jagger, go drink some water.”

They reply with a “Yes, Dad” in the same mocking tone at the same time and hang up.

Words, contracts, and bad intentions come next.

All a distraction until I go to Quinlan.