Page 272 of Quinlan

There was business to attend to. A front to maintain, in case anyone connected the dots between the strange disappearances of Joseph and Elaine, Aria and Rex. No one was supposed to. It made no sense that anyone would.

We did it anyway, returned here after a day. At home, we made a public announcement to deliver a statement about us being the real partners in BLF Capital. Our names are everywhere now.

We’re done hiding. Done planning. Done plotting.

Life is good.

So here we are, in our private plane, with the brushed metal finishes and expensive wood decorations. Sitting in plush leather seats wearing casual slacks and white button-downs on the way to Miami.

Everything screams casual, fun vacation.

I’m anything but relaxed.

The thought of Quinlan and alcohol…

The vein in my head throbs. Raw skin stretches across my knuckles as I grip the arms of my seat.

My gaze is latched on to one thing.

One person.

Quinlan. Sitting across from me in a flowy black dress that matches the ballet flats on her feet. The outfit the three of us chose for her this morning. An outfit meant for comfort.

Meant to accommodate a swelling belly.

Our woman is beautiful. Ethereal. Gorgeous.

Her lips curve upward. From the corner of my eye, it’s obvious Liam’s glowering at Sadie too. She doesn’t notice, her full attention fixed on Quinlan. She has that effect on people. More so recently.

Damien, who’s at Quinlan’s side, squeezes her hand. The one with the giant ten-carat brilliant round cut on her ring finger. Her engagement ring.

His expression is neutral, eyes warm. He’s so mesmerized by her that he probably didn’t hear what our flight attendant just asked.

Alcohol. Motherfucking alcohol.

Quinlan did hear her, though.

She opens her mouth to answer Sadie’s question. She’s going to do it by herself. Be nice about it.

I’m too pissed for niceties. Too pissed that Sadie could’ve missed how Quinlanglows.

“No mimosa.” The bite in my voice is audible. No one scolds me for being rude, least of all Quinlan. Her soft smile says she loves my overprotectiveness. “Christ, can’t you tell she’s pregnant?”

Whose babies are there, there’s no telling. Not yet. All the doctors could tell us this early in her pregnancy is that there are three.

Three fucking babies.

We went back and forth over this. Over the two weeks when we assumed Quinlan had conceived, a little over a month before the flight to Paris.

The three of us fucked her. Bare. Raw. And just so we wouldn’t leave anything to chance, we shoved our cum back inside her.

So there was no way of telling whose babies are inside there. Mine, Liam’s, Damien’s. The three of ours. Could be. It could happen with twins, why not triplets?

None of that mattered, though, that early in the pregnancy.

Quinlan’s well-being did. The babies’ did.

That was the second reason we stayed back in Chicago instead of taking her to meet Liam’s parents right away.

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