Page 82 of Power
“It’s healing nicely,” he said approvingly.
“It was a minor injury,” I reminded him.
“Sometimes, even minor injuries can get infected. You ladies hungry? I can have Maria cook up?—”
“I’m fine,” I interrupted with a forced smile. “I was actually just about to leave.”
“You don’t have to—” Tessa started.
“I’m tired,” I cut her off with a smile that, hopefully, didn’t look as fake as it felt. “Thanks for the wine, Tessa.”
She followed me to the elevator. Yep, Blake lived in a penthouse with an elevator because of course he did—and waited until she seemed sure Blake was out of earshot.
“You look great, by the way,” I said, genuinely meaning it. I should have led with that, for crying out loud, rather than droning on about my problems. “You still feeling healthy?”
She’d battled a medical mystery, one that Blake had been there for every step of the way. Another reason I adored Blake; had it not been for him, Tessa wouldn’t be here right now.
“Never better,” she said, glancing over her shoulder to make sure Blake wasn’t within hearing range before whispering, “Are you sure about your plan?”
“I’m sure.” I stood straighter, channeling my inner warrior princess.
“What if he does something?” Worry etched across her face.
“That’s why I’m doing it in the office. The building has twenty-four-hour security on the first floor.”
The elevator doors opened with a soft ding, and I stepped inside, summoning every ounce of confidence I could muster.
“Scar, I don’t think you need to go through all that to tell Jace the truth. I’m sure he’ll believe you.”
“But this isn’t just about me anymore, and this is too important to take any risks. It’s only one conversation in a carefully controlled environment.”
What could go wrong?
Spoiler alert: everything. Everything was about to go horribly, worst-case scenario wrong.
41
JACE
The mansion’s main room was a testament to luxury: walnut paneling, leather chairs, and a custom poker table. The Sinners and Saints Club, aptly named for the mix of sinners (primarily, Axel) and reluctant saints (debatably, Blake) that made up our brotherhood.
I shuffled poker chips between my fingers—click-click-click—a nervous habit from college finals that now surfaced whenever my mind was a category-five hurricane. And lately, that hurricane had a name: Scarlett.
Blake walked in, hanging his hoodie on the rack with the surgical precision you’d expect from a man who regularly held lives in his hands. “Just saw Scarlett,” he announced casually, like he hadn’t just detonated a bomb in my chest.
My heartbeat accelerated at the mere mention of her name. Like a teenager. Like a goddamn lovesick puppy.
“You did?” I tried for casual disinterest.
“She and Tess were drinking that new cabernet I imported.” He settled across from me, rolling up his sleeves. “She seemed … guarded.”
“Did she say why?” The chips moved faster. Click-click-click-click.
Blake’s doctor eyes diagnosed my pathetic condition instantly. “I presume it’s because of her sperm donor situation. Why? Did something else happen with the guy from work?”
I’d dumped the whole situation into our group chat at two a.m., seeking advice but getting only variations ofjust talk to herandyou’re screwedfrom these three emotional geniuses.
Before I could answer, Axel sauntered in with a bottle of scotch. “Please tell me you two aren’t going to talk about women all night? I came to take your money, not audition for the Lifetime Movie Network.”
