Page 53 of Tempting Fate

“Go heat it up. I’ll be out in a minute.”

Dad’s terse reply makes me shiver.

He places Charlie on her feet.

She makes a move toward the exit.

Just before she reaches Zeke, Dad brushes his fingertips over the stitches in my eyebrow.

I hiss from the sting.

Charlie’s steps falter.

Zeke takes another step forward.

Fret fists the back of my man’s cut.

The churning in my stomach becomes a whirlpool.

“This shouldn’t have happened,” my father remarks.

“I know.”

Dad nods at my easy agreement. “I’m gonna fix this shit. No one else. Me.”

“How?” Fret asks before I can. “By makin’ another deal with the Maddison’s behind our back?”

Without bothering to answer my brother, Dad surges back to his feet. He grabs Charlie’s upper arm and tows her out of the room with him. When they reach the doorway, she shakes free of his grip. He scowls at her but keeps walking. His booted feet are loud in the carpeted hallway, then his moody exit is punctuated by the front doors being slammed shut with unnecessary force.

Facing us, Charlie intertwines her fingers and twists them while she offers us an apology. “He’s under stress… worried about…” She trails off to avoid saying Alex’s name. “He’ll calm down.”

The three of us remain silent until she’s out of earshot.

“What the hell was that all about?” Fret questions, shaking his head.

“Maybe Charlie’s right,” I begin. “He’s stressed?—”

“After the way he behaved last night,” my brother cuts me off. “He needs to lock down his shit or someone’s gonna lock him down with a well-deserved cricket bat to the head.”

“What happened last night?”

My question remains unanswered because Zeke uses his body to wordlessly shepherd my brother out of the bedroom. He closes the door, flipping the lock, then turns to peer at me. As the knowledge that my time has run out hits me, my face grows hot, and I look everywhere but at my fiancé.

I really, really, really don’t want to confess what I did, but I know I must if I want to avoid Alex making things worse.

Shrugging his cut from his shoulders, Zeke pulls his shirt over his head and lays both pieces of clothing over the armchair in the corner.

Bare from the waist up, he stalks toward me.

Aggravation flows from his rigid form.

I ignore his mood, and my reticence to speak, to eat him up with my eyes.

After five years together, I can map out every inch of him with precision, yet I never tire of looking at him. Leaning back to take in his entire physique, I can’t help but marvel at how he keeps getting better with age.

Bronze-brown hair, lightly tanned skin, roped with thick muscle. The aristocratic nose that gives him a veneer of untouchability. His almond-shaped gaze swirls with every common eye colour to create a unique edge to his look. Built like the Rugby back rower he once was, Zeke oozes confidence. Violence. Anarchy. Everything about him embodies the three Ts—as Nadia likes to call them—of the younger generation of the Shamrocks.

Tattooed, tortured, and threatening.

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