Page 67 of Marked

“I probably shouldn’t,” I said. The wine was making everything soft and golden, including my judgment. “I’m already feeling… floaty.”

“Floaty is good,” he murmured, filling my glass anyway.

A warm nose pressed against my leg, and I looked down to find Shadow giving me his most dignified begging face—somehow managing to look both regal and pathetically hungry at the same time.

"Don't even think about it," Maria warned, but my hand was already sneaking another piece of chicken under the table. "Ay Dios mío! You’re spoiling the dogs!"

“I can’t help it,” I protested. “They’re giving me the eyes. The sad, tactical assault unit eyes.”

Derek’s laugh was unexpected and rich, making something warm flutter in my stomach that had nothing to do with the wine. “Tactical assault unit eyes?”

“Look at them!” I gestured at Storm. “That’s military-grade emotional manipulation right there.”

“Just wait until Scout breaks out his special move.” Caleb grinned, his warm thigh pressed against mine.

“Special move?”

As if on cue, Scout rolled onto his back, paws in the air, looking utterly ridiculous for something his size.

“Oh no,” I breathed. “That’s not fair. That’s like bringing nuclear weapons to a pillow fight.”

Marcus’ hand squeezed my knee as he tried to hide his smile. “Speaking of pillows—those weren’t actually family heirlooms. Just regular silk pillows.”

“Oh, thank God.” I slumped in relief, then frowned. “Wait, then why did you yell at Anna?”

The brothers exchanged one of those loaded looks that made me feel like I was missing something important. Derek suddenly became very interested in his wineglass, while Caleb bit his lip to suppress what looked suspiciously like a grin.

“The pillows were… recently acquired,” Marcus said carefully. “For a specific purpose.”

“For catching people running naked from tactical assault dogs?” I suggested.

Caleb actually choked on his wine. Derek’s ears turned pink again, and Marcus’ hand tightened on my knee.

“We are NOT speaking of pillows!” Maria declared loudly. “Jorge! Dessert!”

The dessert looked like heaven on a plate. “Tarta de Santiago,” he announced proudly. “Maria’s mother’s recipe. Though I added—” He caught Maria’s glare and quickly amended, “—absolutely nothing because it’s perfect exactly as her mother made it.”

The dessert looked amazing, but I was suddenly very aware of how close the brothers were, how the wine had madeeverything warm and soft, how Marcus’ thumb was still tracing circles on my knee.

“You must try it with the crema,” Maria insisted, adding a generous dollop to my plate. “Mymadre(mother) always said dessert without cream is like a kiss without—”

“Maria!” Jorge cut in, horrified. “Not at the table!”

I ducked my head to hide my smile, taking a bite of the tarta. It was incredible—rich and nutty and perfectly sweet. A small sound of appreciation escaped before I could stop it, making all three brothers shift in their seats.

“I should probably get going soon,” I said reluctantly, noting how the sky outside had turned dusky purple. “Before it gets dark.”

“Absolutely not!” Maria declared, waving her hands. “You must stay here tonight. It’s too far to drive, especially after all that wine. And Jorge has already started marinating the lamb for tomorrow’s lunch—Greek style,mi amor(my love). Very traditional, with rosemary and lemon. You’ll stay, sí?”

“I couldn’t possibly—”

“The herbs were picked fresh from the garden,” Jorge added, looking wounded.

“But—”

“And the tzatziki,” Maria continued, already planning tomorrow’s menu, her accent thickening with excitement. “Jorge’s tzatziki is better than any Greek place. Though not as good as my—”

“Dios mío!” Jorge cut in. “You dare compare your supermarket yogurt to my hand-strained—”

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