Page 40 of Whispered Desire

Suicide isn't funny, but if my feelings don't allow for dark humor, then I'd really be screwed. Because sometimes a girl's just got to laugh at her fucked-up brain chemistry.

Historic brownstones pass along my right as we continue driving toward the coffee shop where our meeting is taking place. It’s in downtown Boston and near the Mass News headquarters to make it an easy commute for Valerie.

The manor is about forty minutes outside the heart of the city, and with the change of scenery, it seems we’re almost to our destination.

“Of course. I need to know your history, especially if I’m going to advocate for you.”

Well, when he puts it like that…

Mathias has the uncanny ability to make an invasion of privacy seem like an act of protection, and it really fucks with my head. Because all I’ve ever wanted is to feel safe and secure.

Wanted.

Not alone.

I bang my head against the seat’s headrest and groan. “For someone who scared the hell out of me in Paris, you’re nothing like I expected.”

“Don’t think I’m not that man just because I’m excellent at keeping my promises. Like the one I made to care for you,” he says, parallel parking on the street. “I’m still dangerous to be around. Just not for you.”

Mathias winks, and it’s so unexpected from his usually stoic expression that I sit stunned for a minute. Long enough for him to round the car, open my door, and unbuckle my seatbelt.

“Come on. We’ve got ten minutes to walk a block to meet Valerie. There’ll even be a hot caramel macchiato waiting for you when we arrive.”

Because of course he ordered my favorite drink ahead of time.

The coffee shop bustles with locals grabbing their afternoon pick-me-up. Mathias and I skip the line and find our two drinks waiting on the front counter before heading back outside where Jonah procured a table on the sidewalk.

It’s a little chilly for an outdoor meet-up, but the guys preferred the option of multiple exits rather than being surrounded by four walls. And who was I to argue with their tactical training?

“Relax,” Mathias murmurs in my ear, holding out a metal chair for me to sit in.

I lower my bunched shoulders and try for an outwardly calm demeanor. This is my first foray into his world, and it feels a little too close toThe Sopranosright now.

Mathias slings an arm over my shoulders like we're a normal couple out for coffee with a friend. Jonah sits across the table. Hugo and Luca remain hidden somewhere on the street to keep tabs on us in case something goes wrong, while Rafe monitors everything from the manor.

The other two Blackchapel Bastards, the brothers Dmitri and Aleksei, are busy, I guess—since one runs Blackthorn and the other is undercover in prison.

A young woman dressed in slacks and a fashionable blazer approaches our table, and I admire the business chic look she’s got going on. I’ve seen videos of plus-sized fashion influencers showing off different outfits—my favorite is a woman named Nora who lives in a cute little mountain town called Suitor’s Crossing—but this is the first time I've seen someone in the wild rock such a trendy look. It puts my basic sweater and jeans to shame.

“Hi, I’m Valerie Hale with Mass News.” She offers a manicured hand to me and Mathias then turns to Jonah, her movement faltering before she quickly recovers. “Thank you for reaching out. I had no idea Senator Anderson has an illegitimate son. He hides you very well.”

“Can’t blemish his perfect political record,” Jonah quips. His gaze hasn’t left Valerie from the moment she arrived, and I wonder if this is another instance of a Blackchapel Bastard questioning a woman’s willingness to help him.

Like Mathias did with me.

“He’ll need to get over that, considering perfection is the opposite of how I’d describe his tenure with the government,” Valerie says, occupying the last free chair at our table. She rests her leather tote in her lap while extracting a manila folder from its interior. “I hope that doesn’t bother you. That I’ll be reporting the truth about your father. It’s not pretty.”

Jonah and Mathias share a look then break into grins. “Anderson’s dirty dealings are hardly news to us, which is why we asked for this meeting. We’d like to hear what you’ve learned and potentially offer our help. There’s also the chance of another story that might interest you.”

“Oh?” Valerie’s brow raises as she sets the folder down and lowers the tote to the ground. Positioning her phone near the small centerpiece of fake flowers on the table, she asks, “Do you mind if I record our conversation? I promise it’ll be kept between us.”

The men nod, and one pink-tipped finger taps a button on the screen before Valerie launches into the details of her article, stunning me with how thorough her research is.

When I was in middle school, I toyed with the idea of becoming a journalist. There were always episodes in my favorite shows that featured a newspaper editor doling out interesting article ideas, while the writers got special privileges like going backstage at a concert to write a press release.

It seemed like an exciting job until I realized how much talking to strangers it involved. That’s when I set that dream aside and forgot about becoming the next Barbara Walters.

But Valerie provides insight into the path not taken. I could’ve been the sexy sleuth penning a hard-hitting exposé about political corruption if I’d been braver.

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