Page 45 of Lesson In Faith

Fuck. She wouldn’t.

She was bluffing, he told himself, and she had a damn good poker face at her disposal. There was no way she could know his middle name, because it didn’t exist anymore. He’d made sure of it before he left New York City nearly fifteen years ago.

“Merrick Coleman,” she intoned as though reading from a data sheet. “Born Merrick Coxswain Coleman—”

Grit made a noise like he was choking on a ghost pepper, his eyes widening before he pointedly averted his gaze.

“—to Thomas Coleman and Maryann Coleman, nee Sheridan. Two brothers—Thomas Junior and Reginald Tyrone.” Anarchy paused, meeting Merrick’s eyes with direct amusement. “Is that enough of a reference or shall I continue? I can pretty much relay all your family tree back to around 1957.”

There were two choices at hand; he could get really mad and affronted that she’d hacked into his life, digging into data she shouldn’t be able to get her hands on, or he could be impressed with her dedication.

Bowing his head to her, he heard her laugh in delight. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“Bet you are,Coxswain.” Barely biting back a grin of his own, Grit shot Merrick a faux curious look. “Now, is that spelled with ackor anx?”

“That depends on whether or not I knock your front teeth out.” He lifted an eyebrow at Anarchy. “You really think you can find Tamsyn’s background?”

“If it’s there to find. I’d really like to meet her first, get a feel for her.”

Merrick frowned. “Tonight?”

“Tomorrow will be soon enough,” Jasper interjected. “This is a working vacation, kitten, which means I want to enjoy some time with my wife before she gets sucked into her laptop.” He bent and kissed her neck, adding a possessive bite to punctuate the sentence. “I hear Serenity has a fully equipped dungeon.”

A shiver ripped through the blonde, but her attention diverted swiftly as, per Liam’s normal habit, music filtered through the speakers.

Merrick hadn’t realized he’d missed that routine in the Master’s absence; Jonah tended to play classical shit, which was all well and good for some moods, but became a little monotonous on an everyday, week after week basis.

Liam’s playlists were diverse, switching from upbeat pop music to country, rock to the occasional burst of heavy metal.

As Zayde Wølf’sWalk Through The Firedrifted through the bar, Anarchy’s eyes lit up. She grabbed her husband’s hand, gazing up at him with an expression that struck Merrick in the heart—he knew that look.

Deep, profound love. The kind that weathered any storm and tethered the heart involved like an anchor sinking into the ocean floor to hold fast no matter what.

He knew it because he saw it every day, directed at him.

“Dance with me, Jasper.” Anarchy set his hand on her waist, then wrapped her arms around him, drawing the sadist into a slow, circling shuffle of feet as they swayed together.

Some of the ingrained frost in those blue eyes melted. The man himself softened a few degrees, taking the lead as his arms shifted to hold her more securely. “This isn’t a dancefloor, kitten.”

“Do I look like I care?” She sighed contentedly.

Jasper chuckled and pressed a kiss to her head before slanting a glance at Grit and Merrick. “Excuse us. Merrick, we’ll catch up on business in the morning?”

“Yeah, sure.”

His head was still reeling with the epiphany of what had been staring him in the face every morning over breakfast, in bed, while they watched a movie or he was teaching Tamsyn the basics of what every child should know.

It wasn’t adoration or a simple infatuation.

It wasn’t a little crush.

It wasn’t a survivor’s need to cling to the first solid connection she found.

For whatever reason, Tamsyn deemed him worthy enough to take possession of her heart and care for it, which was fucking terrifying, if he was honest. It wasn’t all banged up and cracked, bruised and dinted from previous relationships.

Despite her physical self being all those things, her heart was pristine, with barely a scuff mark marring the surface, full of innocence and untarnished passion. He felt the metaphorical weight of it in his hands, imagined it resting in his cupped palms like a goddamn grenade ready to detonate and blow them both to smithereens.

There was no going back now.

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