Page 88 of Light

“Straw, meet the camel’s back,” Trixie chimes in.

“And Atticus Scorpio, meet Reece Richards,” Angelique concludes.

I let a good minute of silence pass, letting them all absorb that mass of holy-freaking-shit details, before speaking up again. “Once we heard all of that, Atticus’s arrival, as well as his proposition, almost seemed like no-brainers.”

“Combining resources for a common goal.” Angelique finishes that with a small but indecipherable smile. It’s a smile, but the attached sheen in her eyes is definitely not tears of happiness. “Simple elegance in theory; an utter bitch in execution.”

And now full awareness clobbers me. She’s thinking about the moment when that full idea struck her, as well: sometime during her incubus of heartbreak and horror, after being told that Tyce had been executed. She’d sucked it up and decided to come to us in secret, despite knowing her word would be mud and her promises trusted as much as quicksand.

“But not utterly impossible.” I focus the assertion completely at her, praying she sees the deeper message I can only convey with my own smile—and all the assurance and friendship and gratitude I can possibly flow into it. While I’m not ever going to be happy about the pain she’s caused Reece, I also have to accept that his unique path landed him in LA to begin with, with his heart and soul in the right place to see and feel mine. The two circumstances go hand-in-hand. Perhaps the stars would have aligned to make us meet that night in the Brocade, but he would’ve still been the same prince of arrogance as before, and I’d have never been able to feel the impact of the hero he was always meant to be.

“No.” Angie utters her reply with soft meaning, at once conveying that she sees and feels my meaning. The light in her eyes warms to the shade of spring grass as she adds, “Not utterly impossible.”

The others take quiet sips of their sangria, letting Angie and me have our meaningful moment—which gets its perfect relief in the form of my sister’s snorting levity.

“So…Team Bolt and Team Scorpio, in bed together at last. Wouldn’t Netflix have a blast with this orgy, yeah?”

Before we’re all done with our requisite giggles at that, Trixie hikes herself up on an elbow, coyly teething her lower lip. “Speaking of kinky fun…”

“Definitely a great subject switch,” ’Dia laughs out.

“Did your adventures with Mr. Scorpio include any discussion about whether he’s single or not?”

“Oh my God,” I manage to blurt.

“Oh yasss, Mama Bear.” Lydia leans over to make a quick sign of the cross in front of Trixie’s face. “Sister ’Dia approves. That boy is Godiva chocolate fiiiine.”

“And a boss for the world’s biggest crime cartel? The bastard responsible for financing the Consortium in the first place?”

Thank every saint there is for Angelique and her level head—not that my sister is giving her protest a shred of credence. “One of the bosses,” ’Dia elucidates. “The man didn’t sign off on the decision all by himself. Sometimes bad boys just need to be shown that good can be just as sexy and fun.”

“Okay, hold up on that canoe.” Trixie flips a hand up, bitch please style. “Didn’t say I wanted to convert the boy—just have a little fun during his vacation from the dark side. Who knows? Maybe he’ll teach me a few things I don’t know.”

Neeta brightens. “Well, that does sound like fun!”

Fortunately, I find commiseration for my what-the-hell-is-happening glower across the entirety of Angie’s face. “Have I fallen through one of those damn dimension portals?”

“If so, I’m on the same ride,” I mutter.

“Pssshhh,” Lydia volleys. “Don’t listen to the damp laundry, T.” And then gives Trixie’s back some reassuring rubs. “You’re a vital, sexy woman with needs. There’s nothing wrong with scratching those itches.”

“Who’s scratching what itches now?”

All five of us start when Reece appears along with his soft, shrewd query. As one, we spew, “No one!” And then reward ourselves with a wild spray of laughter, inciting the requisite round of hysterical follow-ups.

“No scratching happening here, buddy.”

“Not a single scratch in sight. Nopey-nope.”

“Move along. Move along. Nothing to see here, pal.”

“We’re just sangria-sipping bunnies, shooting the shit about nothing at all.”

“Well, in that case”—Reece leans in and then down, slipping his arms beneath my back and knees—“you all won’t mind if I borrow this little bunny for a few minutes?”

My fellow bunnies, relieved they won’t be questioned anymore by Mr. Persistent himself, chime out their wholehearted approval of him making off with me as the prize. I can’t say that the plan sucks, wholly enjoying the feeling of being held safe and sound in his massive coils of muscle and sinew. After being required to put on my brave Flare face for so many days, it’s a blissful change to be simply his treasured girl again.

Until we get inside.