Page 69 of The Rebel King

“How you doing?” David asks, the concern clear in the eyes of my long-time friend.

“Irritable,” I reply. “And ready to kick everyone out.”

“I can imagine. Actually, I’ve never lost anyone this close, so Ican’timagine. Sorry doesn’t even begin to cut it, brother, but Iamsorry.”

I nod, grateful for the sincerity of his helplessness. We’ve been friends long enough not to say stupid, useless shit when we’re hurting, though nothing has ever hurt like this.

“Thanks, man,” I say.

“You talked to Grim?” David glances around the room. “I thought he might break his no funeral rule this time.”

“He’s where I need him to be, working with the authorities to figure out who did this. He knows that means a lot more to me than him showing up in a suit and tie.”

“I hear ya.”

Mom, standing across the room, nurses a glass of her favorite pinot. The congresswoman talking to her doesn’t seem to notice the glaze over Mom’s eyes or her plastic smile cracking around the edges, but I do. Why is the family expected to entertain? We’re not in the mood for finger sandwiches and banal standing-room conversations. Middle finger to the guy who thoughtI know what we’ll do now that our loved one has died. We’ll throw a party.

“I’ll be back,” I tell David. “I need to go check on my mom.”

I’m headed toward her when a new group enters the dining room. I recognize several of them from Owen’s campaign and redirect my steps, walking toward the sharply dressed knot of people.

“Maxim.”

I turn my head toward the familiar voice.

“Kimba,” I say. “Thank you for coming.”

She steps forward and wraps her arms around me, and I squeeze her back.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice teary. “We all loved him.”

And they all did. From that first night when we all met at Owen’s, a bond started forming between Owen and the team Kimba and Lennix led. Millie had asked for their birthdays and anniversaries so her social secretary could get them a little something. She would have made a fine first lady. I don’t know what the future holds for her, but I’ll make sure it’s whatever she wants.

I pull away and scan the group with Kimba. “Where’s Lennix?”

“She’s coming. There was some press outside the church, and they pounced as soon as they saw her.”

I clamp down on my frustration. I want her with me. I haven’tpressed on it much. I understand her hesitation. Our relationship hasn’t been public and my brother’s funeral isn’t exactly the best place to debut as a couple. Mostly, Lennix has wanted my father to be able to grieve with the family without her presence, considering the enmity between them. I appreciate her sensitivity, but I need her in ways I can’t even articulate. My body and my heart tell me every second of every day that she should be with me.

“Doc.”

It’s like my need for Lennix drew her to me. Her hair is sleek and long, a shiny dark curtain spilling over the red coat she wears, covering a severely cut black dress. Her mouth is red and full. My arms flex with the effort it takes not to grab her.

“Nix.” I keep my voice calm but take her hand and start walking off. “Kimba, excuse us.”

I know I was abrupt, but I need to be alone with Lennix. A few minutes where it’s just us and no one expects me to be “doing well,” “holding up” or “hanging in there.” In measured but swift strides, I pull her out of the dining room and down the hall to the nearest closed door, my father’s office. As soon as the door shuts behind us, I fold her into my arms. She’s winter sunshine, bright and warm on the coldest day of my life. I huddle into her heat and softness. Frustrated by the layer of wool keeping her shape from me, I push the coat over her shoulders and down her arms, letting it pool on the floor around her high-heeled feet, and turn her so she’s against the wall. I press into her, bury my face in the silky curve of her neck. She slides her arms around me under my suit jacket, and her fingers seek and find the tension in my back, kneading the muscles through my shirt.

“I missed you.” I kiss her forehead and push the stream of hair over her shoulder, exposing the line and curve of her jaw and neck.

“I missed you, too.” She cups one side of my face and searches my eyes. “How are you?”

“Breathing. That’s about it.”

“It’s enough.” She tips up to kiss my cheek, and I turn my head,brushing our lips together, briefly, but enough to catch fire. We both pause, our gazes cling, and our mouths part, hovering in a shared breath. The flare of passion catches us unaware in the midst of grief, but it’s undeniably the same burning want that’s never far away when we touch. I grip her by the hips and pull her so close my body is a hard question. Hers is a soft response. A “yes” wrapped in velvet, lined with satin.

The door opens, and Lennix sucks in a startled breath. I brace myself to face my father, but it’s not him.

“Mom.”

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