Page 69 of Inevitably Yves

“I’ll hear your confession,” I whisper to him.

Nodding, he turns to glance around the darkness of the club, then bows his head. I can hear his heart beating, sense the shift in his energy, practically taste his pain. He shifts his gaze up.

“I want to tell you about Marcello.”

TWENTY-THREE

Yves

The anger my brothers still carry over my disastrous affair vibrates through me. We’ve avoided discussing it for years. It was probably unhealthy, but I couldn’t face it. Now I feel I must before Hadrian uses it to break me.

With a deeper breath than I’ve taken in many years, I resign myself to it, avoiding Damiano’s penetrating gaze.

“I met Marcello in 1899 on the eve of a new year. We were in London.”

Thorn huffs a bitter laugh. “My fault. I had heard it was a fun place to celebrate and Yves indulged me.”

“As usual,” Syn says, but his tone is light.

I offer my brothers a soft smile. “We had been in the Americas for some time, and I agreed that a trip to Europe would do us good. After all, we had all originated from there.”

“Mostly,” Thorn says.

“Marcello was attending the same high society ball,” I continue. “I had been content for many years, enjoying the company of my brothers and the occasional lover, but when I saw him, something inside me stirred. Something I mistook for love. Fate even.”

Damiano’s energy darkens, but he nods. “Go on.”

“I remember what he wore as clearly as if he were standing here now. A cream silk suit, beautifully tailored, his long, wavy dark hair tied with a ribbon. He looked like a raven-haired angel.”

Eros scoffs, pulling Justice closer.

“In my desperation for the love I could not find, I projected every hope and lost opportunity onto Marcello. He accepted my admiration, agreed to come to my home and warm my bed.”

I’m not surprised at the surge of jealousy I feel coming from Damiano.

I glance at him. “Obviously, this story does not end well.”

“Sorry,” Damiano mumbles. “Continue.”

A long-forgotten memory flows from Thorn, reaching me and wrapping around me.

A soft knock pulls my attention to the door as Marcello enters wearing an open silk robe and nothing else. He loves to show off his graceful body, even though all my brothers respectfully turn their eyes away.

“You’ve been gone too long, darling,” he says in his soft, Italian-accented voice, slinking across the room to me. He drapes his arms around my neck from behind, leaning his head down to nuzzle my cheek, his eyes fixed on Thorn. “You wouldn’t want me to be jealous, would you?”

Thorn scoffs at that. “If he wanted me in his bed, you wouldn’t even be here, Marcello. You’d do well to realize how special you are to him.”

I raise an eyebrow in surprise.

Marcello stands straight, gazing at my brother. “Sentiments can change.”

“Yes, they can, and again, if he wanted me, you would know it. He wouldn’t sneak around about it.” Thorn stands, straightening the cuff of his sleeve. “And if he no longer wanted you, well, I think you can answer the rest yourself.”

“You don’t like me,” Marcello says, pouting.

“It isn’t necessary for me to like you. Only tolerate you.” Then he leans close to Marcello as he passes him on the way out. “But take heed, Marcello. Yves comes first. If you hurt him, it will be the last thing you do.” He kisses Marcello’s cheek before nodding to me and exiting the room.

My eyes shift to Thorn, who bows his head. Each brother likely has a similar negative memory of interacting with Marcello.

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