Page 120 of Savannah Royals
“He can’t help it,” one of Harry’s cousins says. “It’s in his blood. His mother was a courtesan, after all.”
“That’s right.” Harry’s eyes light up. “Guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, huh, Matthew? Like father, like son. The DaMolin men sure love their trash.”
As soon as the comment about their father is uttered, Ethan drops his arm from Matthew’s chest. Both men rush forward, and neither Mellie nor I try to stop them.
Matthew collides with Harry. Ethan targets the Astor cousin who spoke. I stare for a moment, astonished, as fists fly. It’s not that I’m unaccustomed to a good scuffle—far from it—but it’s hardly something I was prepared for today. This isn’t a back alley of the bayou, for Christ’s sake. It’s the Jekyll Island Club.
Matthew delivers a sharp blow to Harry’s left eyebrow before being hauled off by an Astor cousin. Ethan takes two blows to his side before getting a hit in edgewise.
I crack the knuckles on my right hand as I observe and consider. It’s three versus two, which simply won’t do. Mellie flounders and gasps beside me, a wind-up toy running circles at full steam. Ineffective.
“For the record,” I announce, “I want it stated…I didn’t start this fight, but I’m not above finishing it.”
No one is listening. Fine. They will be in a minute. After ascertaining there are no bystanders in the vicinity, I throw myself into the fray.
I grab the man’s shoulder who has Ethan in a lock and yank him back. I snatch his wrist and give a sharp flick, flipping him forward onto the floor. I turn my attention to Harry as he lands a glancing blow off the corner of Matthew’s jaw.
Target: Harry Astor.
“Enough.” I rip him away by the biceps while delivering a swift kick to the back of his knees. He drops like a sack of flour, but I’m not done with him. I yank backward, wrenching his arm in a way designed tozingin its socket. I shove his spine into the wall of the clubhouse with the full, explosive power of my anger. I raise my arm to lock him in across the neck. Behind me, Matthew and Ethan stand over the Astor cousins, victorious.Mellie shakes out her fist as though she’s thrown a delicate punch of her own, a secret smile of satisfaction playing on her lips.
“God, Kat you are such a bitch.” Harry spits out the insult as though he expects it to hurt.
Adorable.
“You’re right,” I say. “I am. With one key distinction—I’m the special kind of bitch they only breed in the Catacombs.”
I pull back and sink my fist into his gut, doubling him over, followed by a swift knee to the balls as he drops, just for good measure.
Paul would call it an object lesson. And I know to make sure it hurts.
Ittakesalittleexplaining on the walk home to Cherokee before Ethan is willing to let it go.
“You just decked him…absolutely leveled him. How did you do that?”
I shrug. “Ethan, don’t worry about it. I’ve always been able to take care of myself.”
“I’ll say.”
The four of us promenade along the walking path that loops the property, linking the cottages and clubhouse together. Spanish moss cascades romantically from the ageless oak trees. A few strolling couples mill about; the nearest pair holds a parasol to block the midday sun. In the corner of my vision, I notice Matthew’s mouth is bleeding. I pass him a cocktail napkin to dab away the evidence.
“Well, you’re officially in now, Kat. Just in case there was any doubt before,” Ethan continues.
“In what?” I ask absentmindedly, distracted by Matthew spitting blood into the grass. I slap his arm and point to an approaching passerby. He straightens quickly, chastised.
“You’re one of us,” Ethan clarifies. “You’re a DaMolin. One hundred percent.”
I pause, snapping my eyes to him as I remember the last time someone said something like that to me. Abe, when I was six years old, declaring I was a wolf, just like him. A Royal.
Ethan watches the burst of emotion flash over my face. “If he doesn’t marry you,” he continues, jerking his head toward his brother, “I will. I want you on our team.”
“You most certainly do,” Mellie purrs her assent.
I nod and blink quickly, trying to bury the emotion stirring deep inside me. The feeling of belonging to something. To a whole greater than the sum of its parts. What that means to me.
“I’m going to marry her, dick.” Matthew spits into the napkin this time. It’s only passably more subtle.
“Matthew?” I turn to him, forcibly ignoring the flutter in my stomach at his unexpected but casual mention of marriage. “Do you need ice when we get to the house? Would that help?”
