Page 158 of Rut Bar

“You still have a lot to do to make it up to me.”

He grins. “Just tell me which building to burn down next.”

“Oh my God, that’s not funny.”

Anthony slips off the sofa and kneels on the rug so we’re eye to eye. He cups my face in his palms and strokes his thumbs over my cheeks. “I’m kidding… Kind of. You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for my girl.”

“I know.”

I know he means it. Anthony can be manipulative and juvenile at times, something Brendan says he’ll mellow out of with age, but he’s loyal. When he cares about someone, he takes care of them. Sometimes in unsavory ways. Sometimes in sweet ones. He beat a man until his knuckles were bloody. He stopped me from probably getting arrested for having a taser. If I’d been downstairs holding it when the police showed up, it could have gotten ugly. His threat to find the alphas who’ve tried to hurt me isn’t idle. If I gave the word, I know some of them might end up in the hospital or underneath a freshly poured foundation.

I cup his hand and rub his knuckles. They healed well, but there’s a scar over one. It fucked up his tattoo, but he refuses to see his tattoo artist and get it fixed. He says he earned it fair and square. That he likes the reminder. So do I. I find myself tracing it with my finger. There’s something pleasant about knowing he earned it while protecting me.

“But I don’t need you to protect me from myself,” I tell him. “Not when it means keeping things from me or making decisions that affect me behind my back. That’s not what family does.”

He opens his mouth, hesitates, then closes it and nods. “Okay. More talking and asking first. I can do that.”

Smart man.He’s learning. Anthony stands and rakes his unruly hair out of his face. “So what do you want for breakfast, baby?”

My stomach rumbles, demanding more than protein omega water. I’m really tired of being queasy. Maybe they’re right. Is it really that weird compared to anything else my body craves during a heat? Rejecting my omeganess leads to puking. I’m really over worshiping at the base of the porcelain throne. Still, that doesn’t mean I’ll tolerate any teasing about it.

I tuck the fuzzy blanket more around myself like it’s armor. “When you said we’d never talk about it, I’m holding you to that.”

Anthony tries to suppress his smile, but fails. “You got it, baby. Does pineapple and passionfruit sound good? Okay, coming right up. Hey, Jamie, I need you! Grab the blender, babe.”

Twenty minutes later when I’ve sucked down my smoothie and my stomach’s settled enough to finally eat some buttered toast without getting sick, I can’t regret agreeing to it. A quick internet search in private mode tells me it’s a lot more common than I knew. I always thought those magazine articles that told you to put your man’s dick through a donut to spice up your blowjob were for shock value to sell more magazines.

“Laundry’s done,” Brendan says in the afternoon. He lays a hand on Anthony’s shoulder. “Help me make the nest?”

“Sure.”

Jamie and I stay cuddled on the couch while an old classic movie plays. I’m barely paying attention to it as I add another tiny braid to Jamie’s hair. It’s so pretty with all the different blond and brown tones. The sun has made the top strands lighter than the ones underneath. He falls asleep like that, and then so do I, and we only wake from our nap when the smells of cooking from the kitchen stir us.

After dinner, when my stomach settles in record time and I’m able to hold down a proper meal without getting queasy, I can begrudgingly admit that Anthony was right.

Although I’ll never give him the satisfaction of saying so out loud. He doesn’t need encouragement. None of them do. I’m pampered enough.

Epilogue

VERONICA

A year and a half later

The front doorsqueaks on its hinges as it opens, the sound loud in the otherwise quiet room. All eyes turn to watch our resident himbo alpha walk in. Anthony follows quickly behind him with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“You’re late,” I snap at them both. “It’s almost time.”

“Sorry,” Jamie says, looking sheepish. “Traffic.”

I’d believe him—except he blushes. My eyes narrow with suspicion as I stare at him. “It’s LA. There’s always traffic.”

I never should have let them both run to the store to get a new power cord for the projector. The two-hour errand shouldn’t have taken almost four hours. I have an inkling about what made them so late, and traffic has nothing to do with it.

I glance at the time on the clock above the bar. It’s nearly five. “Let’s get that cord switched. It’s almost time.” My heart knocks against my ribs as Brendan takes the blue and yellow bag from Anthony and swaps out the new power cord for the old broken one. We could have made do with using a laptop or tablet, but I really wanted to use the projector so everyone could see New York’s grand opening of Rut on the big screen.

Brendan makes quick work of it, his fingers nimble as he plugs the projector in and gets it to boot up. When the blue standby screen aligns with the sheet we’ve hung up as our backdrop, everyone crowds around the main stage and cheers.

He gets it hooked up to the wi-fi, and I text Nate to let him know that we’re ready. A few minutes later, I accept his call and Brendan helps me stream the video call to the projector so everyone can watch.

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