Page 38 of Princes of Carnage

“Don’t fucking touch that,” I snap, cradling it to my chest protectively. It’s one of my father’s ledgers, where he’d keep records of gang business and sometimes doodle in the margins. When I inherited this place, I found notebooks and journals like this scattered all over the house, filled with my dad’s handwriting and little drawings of pieces that would likely become future tattoos. Some of them I moved to the bookshelf, and some of them I left where I found them.

Now that my house has been invaded by these fuckers, I wish I’d boxed them all up and hidden them somewhere safe.

He laughs, leaning against the shelf. “We’re married now, mia cara,” he says teasingly. “What’s yours is mine.”

“Keep that energy when I start going through your shit,” I mutter, turning away.

He doesn’t make a move to grab for the book or take any more off the shelf. Instead, he pushes away and goes back to making sure their things are being moved in appropriately.

It takes another hour to move everything in, and then the other members of their gang trickle out. Nico closes the door behind them, leaving just the four of us in the quiet of the house.

Only it’s not so quiet anymore.

I’d just about gotten used to the new silence of the house, the way the only things in it that make noise are the ticking clocks, the rumbling of the ice maker in the fridge, and me when I’m walking around.

But now there are the sounds of the three Princes settling in, taking over my space like they live there. Which… they do.

Just thinking about it fills me with a sort of wary, restless anxiety.

It crosses my mind to ignore them, but I couldn’t if I tried. Their presence is so amplified here in this house that I’m used to being in on my own.

Killian regards my vintage record collection with no expression on his face. Nico wanders upstairs to pick out the room he wants and probably to assign rooms to the other two based on some criteria only he knows. Atlas opens the fridge and the cabinets in the kitchen, and there’s no misreading the look of disdain on his face as he sees how bare my kitchen is.

Part of me wants to defend myself, to point out that I’ve been fucking busy for a year, trying to keep Enigma afloat in my father’s absence, trying to mourn and keep my shit together all at the same time.

But I don’t owe him anything. I don’t owe any of them anything.

So I keep to myself, staying out of their way. I sit in the living room, trying to focus on the work I need to take care of. I read reports from my people and make lists of things that still need to be done.

Even with all this other bullshit going on, I’m still the leader of a gang. People are still relying on me.

Maybe the three men can sense that I don’t want to be bothered, or maybe they’re just busy unpacking and settling in. Whatever the reason, they don’t bother me for the rest of the evening, and eventually, they disappear upstairs to their rooms.

I wait for a few more minutes, listening to the sounds of the floor creaking and water clanging in the pipes before I head upstairs myself, exhausted and ready for bed.

I hurry through brushing my teeth and then slip into my room, closing and locking the door. My head feels heavy, and I can feel the weight of the day dragging on me, but when I get in bed, sleep doesn’t come.

I’m too agitated, too aware of the fact that my house doesn’t quite feel like mine anymore. There are three men sleeping just down the hall, three dangerous men that I don’t trust much more than my worst enemies, and I can’t seem to get that thought out of my mind.

I toss and turn, punching my pillow, trying to get comfortable, but it’s no fucking use.

The night seems very loud. Like every cricket outside is screaming, and every brush of branches against the window is ten times more grating than usual.

Eventually, I can’t take it anymore. The restlessness feels like a parade of ants under my skin, and I throw back the covers and slide out of bed. I grab the knife that I keep on my beside table and slip out of my room, padding silently down the hall in the shorts and loose-necked t-shirt I went to bed in.

I stop outside the bedroom that Nico chose—the one closest to mine—and quietly wrap my fingers around the doorknob, testing it.

Locked, unsurprisingly.

Doesn’t matter. I made sure I knew where the keys to each room were before the men arrived, and I go up on tiptoes and slide it off the upper edge of the door frame where I stashed it. It slips into the lock easily, and I turn, moving slowly and carefully to make sure that the click of the lock disengaging isn’t audible.

My heart pounds harder in my chest as I ease the door open and slip inside. I close it soundlessly and then creep closer to his bed, coming to a stop right beside the bed frame. My fingers grip the hilt of the knife hard as I stare down at him.

He’s asleep, shirtless, his fresh tattoo and his older ones barely visible in the dim light and the covers pooled around his waist. He doesn’t stir as I stand there, his head turned slightly to one side, his breathing deep and even.

It’s hard to look away from his face. His features are shadowed in the darkness, but still, there’s something about them that draws me in. Although the hard lines of his face haven’t slackened much with sleep, it’s still the most relaxed I’ve ever seen him.

He looks almost… human like this.

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