Page 11 of Power's Fall

While Vadisk didn’t bother to hide his irritation, he couldn’t stop himself from looking at them possessively. After all, they were his.

Montana.

The man was shorter than Vadisk—almost everyone was—and heavily muscled. He walked with an easygoing stride that spoke of confidence. Vadisk had worked as a bouncer at a club, and a man who moved like that was one he’d watch out for if a fight started. He had reddish hair but sunglasses obscured his eyes.

Dahlia.

She was shorter than Montana by at least ten or twelve centimeters, with straight dark hair cut in a precise line that swung as she walked. A slight smile curved her lips, and she pushed her sunglasses onto her head, squinting a little against the light. Her smile widened as she looked at him, though it didn’t reach her eyes. A polite smile. His wife wore a dress made of some soft-looking fabric flowing around her and a short jacket.

His wife.

His husband.

Fucking fleet admiral.

Vadisk still didn’t know exactly what the hell had happened at that meeting in Dublin. He’d gone with his admiral, Nikolett, but hadn’t been in the meeting itself. He hadn’t even been allowed on the grounds, the fleet admiral’s Spartan Guard stopping him at the Trinity College gate.

He’d been in a pub just off College Green when his phone rang. He’d planned to ignore it, but then a text from Nikolett popped up on the screen telling him to answer the call.

An American woman he didn’t know had announced that he was getting married, not to two members of the Masters’ Admiralty but to members of the Trinity Masters—the American secret society based on the same principle of arranged trinity marriages.

He hadn’t believed it until, several minutes into the call, the fleet admiral came on and reiterated what the American woman had said.

The marriage would have been shocking enough, but to find out they’d also been given a mission, and a dangerous one at that, had Vadisk reeling.

Especially given what was happening in Budapest right now. Guilt and anxiety at leaving his admiral unprotected—though he knew the other security officers andharcosokwould look after her—made his shit mood shittier.

It had been a busy ten days since that call. So busy that he hadn’t actually met his new spouses in person until this moment, the three of them chatting only once—briefly—on a video call. Half that time had been spent preparing for this mission, the other half desperately trying to make sure his admiral was safe and protected without him.

Nikolett hadn’t said much about the meeting, but she did tell him, in a quiet voice, that she tried to stop the marriage and had been overruled. He had a feeling more bad shit had happened based on the stark, haunted look in her eyes.

Fucking fleet admiral.

“Vadisk?” Dahlia asked.

Vadisk breathed out through his nose and nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

Dahlia held out her hand. “Dahlia McKean.” Her lips twitched. “Your wife.” Vadisk took her hand in his, surprised to feel some hard spots on her palm at the base of her fingers. Calluses.

Beside her, Montana chuckled, the sound low and rich, and when Dahlia took her hand back, Montana extended his. “Montana-Reginald James Kingston. Nice to meet you, man.”

Vadisk faltered as he reached for the other man’s hand, a bit surprised by his easygoing attitude, but only for a moment. They gripped one another briefly.

“Montana Reginald? You said that like you have two first names,” Dahlia said.

“Technically, I do.” Montana shook his head in mock distress. “My mom hyphenated it, but I go by just Montana.”

Dahlia laughed. “There’s a story there, I think.”

“Yep. But don’t ask.” He winced.

Dahlia stepped closer and put a hand on Vadisk’s arm. “Well, now I think we definitely need to know why you’re named Montana.”

Vadisk looked down at where her small hand rested against his biceps. Her fingers were long and delicate, the nails curved and well maintained.

One thing Vadisk hadn’t let himself think about was his physical relationship with his new spouses. By rights, they could, and should, fuck.

He was silent too long because Dahlia’s fingers curled into her palm, her nails scraping lightly against the fabric of his sleeve, before pulling her hand away.

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