Page 65 of Marked

As Miguel headed back to the gardens, I caught him muttering something that sounded suspiciously like “…finally found him,” but before I could ask, Derek was moving again, carrying me up the manor steps like some kind of fairy-tale prince.

Except in fairy tales, the prince usually wasn’t quite so… possessive. And there weren’t two other princes watching with equally heated gazes.

Right?

Chapter 14

The Stone manor’s family dining room was a far cry from the formal one I’d glimpsed earlier. Connected to the living room through wide archways, it managed to be both elegant and cozy—probably thanks to Maria’s touch. The round oak table could seat eight comfortably, its rich wood gleaming in the warm light from the iron chandelier above. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of the garden where Miguel had been working earlier, now painted in sunset colors. A massive stone fireplace shared with the living room added to the intimate atmosphere, and comfortable leather chairs invited long, lingering meals rather than formal state dinners.

I found myself wedged between Marcus and Caleb, with Derek across from me, which felt both thrilling and dangerous—like sitting between two live wires while being watched by a third. Shadow had claimed his spot under the table, his massive head resting on my lap with expert precision. Storm and Scout flanked me like protective shadows, their eyes fixed on my hands with laser focus despite having already eaten their own dinner.

“No begging,” Maria scolded the dogs as she bustled in with yet another steaming dish.

The dogs didn’t budge an inch. Shadow just turned those soulful eyes up at me, and I swear he practiced that look in a mirror.

“Don’t even think about it,” Jorge warned, setting down what had to be the most beautiful paella I’d ever seen. “They’re worse than children when it comes to table manners.”

The spread was incredible—gambas al ajillo—garlic shrimp that had apparently required therapy—patatas bravas glistening with spicy sauce, platters of jamón and manchego, and that gorgeous paella studded with seafood and saffron-golden rice. It was a far cry from the quiet dinners of my childhood, where Mom would silently serve rice and whatever stir-fry she’d managed between anxiety attacks and planning our next move.

“You’re thinking too hard,” Caleb murmured, his thigh pressing warmly against mine. “Try the shrimp before Jorge starts listing their credentials.”

“These shrimp,” Jorge announced proudly, “were caught fresh this morning and prepared according to—”

“According tomyabuela’s recipe,” Maria cut in, making Miguel snicker into his wineglass.

“You used store-bought garlic powder!” Jorge gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “I saw the container!” he insisted. “In your kitchen!”

“That wasone time!” Maria gasped, clutching her chest. “I was sick that week! And you dare bring this up again—”

“The truth must be told,” Jorge declared. “The great Valencia paella competition winner—”

“Good Lord in heaven!” Maria exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “Jorge Stone, I swear—”

I couldn’t help it—I laughed. The sound surprised me. It felt rusty but real. When was the last time I’d actually enjoyed a family dinner? Mom and I had loved each other fiercely,but meals were usually quick, quiet affairs punctuated by her checking the windows and me pretending not to notice.

“Here,” Marcus said softly, reaching across me to serve paella onto my plate. The motion brought him close enough that I could feel the heat radiating off him, smell that addictive wild scent that all three brothers seemed to share. “Maria and Jorge’s paella is legendary.”

“Based onmyabuela’s recipe,” Maria announced proudly, making Jorge throw his hands up in exasperation.

“Wecollaborated!” Jorge protested. “I added the perfect balance of—”

“Perfect balance? Ha! If I hadn’t stopped you with the saffron—”

“The saffron needs to sing, woman! Not whisper!”

Miguel’s phone chimed, and his face lit up in a way that made it obvious who the message was from.

“Anna says hi,” he reported, thumbs flying over the screen. “And that we better save her some patatas bravas or there’ll be consequences.”

“Tell her I already set aside a portion,” Maria said proudly. “That girl, she knows good food. Unlikesomepeople who think store-boughtpimentónis acceptable—”

“It was imported! FromLa Vera!” Jorge insisted. “The finest smoked paprika in Spain!”

“Imported? Ha! I saw the supermarket label!” Maria gasped. “In your kitchen! This morning!”

“The shipment was delayed,” Jorge declared dramatically. “What was I supposed to do? Let thechorizosuffer…”

I felt something warm and solid press against my right side as Caleb leaned in. “Watch this,” he whispered, his breath tickling my ear. Then, louder, he said, “Hey, Jorge, didn’t I see some pre-minced garlic in the pantry?”

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