Page 185 of Unconditionally Yours

He watches my legs as I get on the bike like he’s reconsidering his priorities. “You look devastating,” he says. “If Hank looks at you wrong, I’m gonna be doing hard time.”

“They’re dropping the charges,” I purr, and I lean in to kiss the edge of his jaw where his tension lives. “No murder, okay?”

“No promises,” he says, but he kisses me back like maybe he’ll try.

We peel out like the finale of a girl gang heist movie. When we pull into the courthouse lot, Benji’s already there, parked neatly, pressed shirt with the sleeves rolled up just enough to flex. And Rhys is beside him, leaning in, talking to Walter, sunglasses low on his nose.

I slide off the bike with a dramatic stretch and pretend I don’t live for the way all three of them look at me, like I’m sex and sin and salvation, all poured into bubblegum pants.

“Gentlemen,” I say, and I wink. “Ready to watch me make the courthouse my catwalk?”

Benji kisses my hand like I’m royalty. Jett mutters something filthy under his breath. Rhys just smirks and opens the courthouse door, inviting me to ruin.

I strut in. The building’s never seen pink vengeance like this.

Inside, it’s like someone summoned a Wet Paper Bag Coven. Hank, Chad, and Margo are huddled in a sad little triangle around some guy in a stiff suit with dead eyes. Must be their lawyer. No aura. No sparkle. No giddy, deranged triumph humming in his bones. Just gray slacks and law school loans.

Margo’s in beige flats like her feet gave up on ever feeling joy. Chad’s touching her back. Hank is so close to her they might as well be licking each other’s tonsils. Poly vibes, but makeit boring. How do you have that kind of spicy little throuple potential and still look like a mayonnaise sandwich in a waiting room?

Walter peels off to speak to their funeral director of an attorney, and that’s when Hank looks up. He turns. He sees me. And his jaw just... drops.

Yes. That’s right, fucker. Gaze upon what you could never handle. Look at this rhinestone reckoning in heels. I hope your dick recoils from the memory of me. I hope it sobs.

Benji’s heat is a furnace at my back, tall and solid and humming like a security system programmed to maul. He’s tense. Actually tense. Which is rare enough to make my stomach flip, so I reach back, curl my fingers around his tie, and pull him into a kiss.

It’s filthy. It’s possessive. It’s for me, for him, but it’s also absolutely for them.

I hear Margo make a noise. It’s half gasp, half whimper.

Good. Let her taste her own jealousy like battery acid in her throat.

Rhys and Jett move in, shoulders brushing mine on either side, forming a wall. A very fuckable wall of righteous vengeance and complex emotional dysfunction. My army. My terrible, beautiful boys.

Chad clocks Jett and stares. His mouth twitches.

I slide my hand onto Jett’s arm, slow and syrupy and mean. My fingers curl tight over muscle, proprietary as hell.

That’s right, Chad. No words needed. He’s mine. Every inch. Every bruise. Every beautiful, ruined piece.

It’s not long before we’re called in.

The judge’s chambers are all polished wood and fake gravitas, like a lawyer Barbie playset for middle-aged men with power complexes. We file in together, me and the boys, all insync like some terrifyingly horny legal dream team, and take our seats.

The judge looks up, blinks once, and sighs like we’ve already exhausted him by existing. Probably fair.

Papers shuffle. Legalese oozes out like the world’s most boring incantation. I’m already planning my post-court blowjob schedule. Walter is charming and terrifying, and our side of the table smells like cologne, coffee, and a low-level threat of violence.

I sign my name like I’m autographing a glossy headshot. Big, curvy, sluttier than necessary. I dot the “i” with a heart and spite.

Rhys doesn’t stop me.

Jett smirks.

Benji signs next, and he hesitates, just a second too long, pen hovering. His knuckles are white around it. He stares at Hank like he’s picturing all the ways he could rip his spine out and turn it into wind chimes.

After he signs, he stands. Voice quiet. Flat. “I’m gonna step out. I said I wouldn’t make a scene. I’m keeping that promise. But if I look at him one more second, I might forget.”

I reach out, touch his wrist, warm and trembling.