Page 61 of They All Own Me

"Makes our job easier though, doesn't it?" I tap the surveillance screen. "He's so busy getting his dick wet, he's not even thinking about security."

"She really deserves better than this piece of shit," Dom mutters, eyes fixed on the monitor. "She's so fucking funny, how she lights up the room, the way she moves... er… in the kitchen."

My head snaps toward him. Something in his tone catches my attention. Too intimate. Too familiar.

"The way she moves?" I set my glass down slowly. "You seem to know a lot about how she moves."

Dom freezes for a split second – barely noticeable, but I catch it. His shoulders tense before he tries to play it casual. "Just from observing her at the house, you know?"

"Right." I lean forward, studying his face. "And what exactly have you been observing?"

He meets my eyes, then looks away. Guilty. "Look, it just happened, alright?"

My stomach drops. The whiskey turns sour in my throat. "You slept with her."

It's not a question. He doesn't deny it.

"On the jet," he admits quietly. "When we went shopping."

I stand abruptly, needing space. My fists clench at my sides as I process this information. The image of them together floods my mind unbidden.

"Fuck." I run a hand over my tattooed scalp. "This complicates things."

"It doesn't have to."

"Like hell it doesn't." I pace the small room, trying to sort through the surge of emotions. Jealousy burns hottest, which makes no damn sense. She's not mine to be jealous over.

"We're professionals," Dom says. "We can keep it separate from the job."

I bark out a harsh laugh. "Nothing about this job has been professional since the moment we brought her home."

I'm about to light another cigarette and launch into my spiel on how he's not the only one entranced by her when he grabsmy arm. Through our surveillance equipment, I watch as a well-dressed couple approaches Thomas's cabana. The woman's auburn hair and confident stride are eerily familiar.

"Holy shit," Dom hisses. "Those look like Tatum's parents."

My stomach drops as I zoom in with the camera. The resemblance is unmistakable – same aristocratic features, same entitled air about them. "What the hell are they doing here?"

"Call her. Now." Dom's voice carries an edge I rarely hear.

I pull out my burner phone, dialing Tatum's number while keeping my lens trained on the scene unfolding below.

The phone rings twice before she picks up.

"Everything okay?" Her voice carries that lilting tone that makes my chest tighten.

"Call your father's cell. Now." I keep my voice steady despite the tension coursing through me.

"Why? What's going on?"

"Just do as you're told, lass." The Irish in my accent thickens with frustration. "Questions later."

She huffs into the phone. "You're such a grump sometimes, you know that?"

"Tatum." My warning tone must convey enough urgency because I hear her fingers tapping on her phone screen.

Through my lens, I watch her father reach into his tailored suit pocket as his phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, then shows it to his wife. My jaw clenches as he declines the call and slides the phone back into his pocket.

"The mother fucker hung up on me," Tatum says, disbelief coloring her voice.

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