Page 46 of Vance

And now, after years of butting heads with us all, she is walking into my mother’s house as my wife. A status that hasn’t made my brothers willing to welcome her into the family.

“They’re going to be assholes,” Sophia mutters.

I glance at her, my eyes narrowing. “Careful, sweetheart.”

“What?” she huffs. “They are.”

“They’re going to be themselves.”

“That’s worse.”

A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it, because she isn’t wrong. My brothers and I are cut from the same cloth. Roman saw to that. I happen to be the only one who enjoys having someone willing to push back.

“And if they make it clear I’m not welcome?”

“My brothers don’t get to decide whether you belong here.” I don’t elaborate. Instead, I lift her hand to my mouth, sink my teeth into the pad of her palm until she gasps. The sound goes straight to my cock, as it always does. And based on her tiny gasp, I’m certain the pain has an equivocal reaction for her. I press my lips to the faint teeth marks, soothing the bite.

My family’s estate rises before us, the broad facade of pale limestone softened by tall windows and climbing ivy. It was the country home she shared with my father, where they occasionally escaped the city on weekends. The grounds stretch wide around it, meticulously landscaped with mature trees framing the drive.

My brothers’ cars are already lined along the circular drive—Kaden’s restored 1972 black Aston Martin DBS, Xander’s sleek midnight-blue Bentley Continental GT, and twins’ matching Ducati Superleggeras angled near the front steps. None of them have ever been particularly interested in practicality. But when you have our kind of money, you buy whatever the hell you want.

As the car comes to a stop, the mask slides over her face. The one that says, “Everything is fine, I’m happy, this is exactly where I want to be.”

It should satisfy me. It does satisfy me, on some level. But I prefer the version of Sophia who doesn’t wear it. I exit first, round the car to her side, and open her door with the formality she still isn’t used to. She places her hand in mine, allowing me to help her out of the car. Not letting go once she’s to her feet, I pull her close and place my hand at the small of her back, my thumb tracing her spine through the thin fabric of her dress.

The front door opens before we reach it, my mother stepping out to greet us. “Vance.” She offers her cheek for my kiss, which I give, brief and dutiful. “And Sophia. Welcome.”

“Thank you for having us, Mrs. Ashford,” Sophia says, her voice steady despite the tremor beneath my hand.

“Cora, please,” she corrects, gesturing for us to enter.

“Where are the vultures?” I ask, steering Sophia past Mom and into the foyer.

“Library,” Mom sighs, falling into step behind us. “Drinking my scotch and arguing about the South Side development. I told them work stays at the office, but…” She trails off with a sigh that communicates decades of managing men who don’t listen.

The library doors are open, and their voices drift out into the expansive foyer. They fall silent when we enter, four heads turning in unison with near-matching sharp gazes.

Xander is the first to move, unfolding himself from the leather armchair, where he’s likely been sitting silently as the others hold court. At thirty-seven, he’s the middle child, but there’s something older in the way he carries himself. He’s always been stoic and watchful, never one for many words. He prefers to observe, to let silence do the work. And he has a habit of looking at people as though he’s three steps ahead of whatever they’re about to say.

“Sophia,” he says, extending his hand. She takes it, and I watch Xander’s expression carefully. I know he’s already running the numbers on my marriage—trying to determine how it affects the company and our family—but his grip is gentle, almost respectful.

“Xander,” Sophia returns, her voice steady, despite the tension radiating through her. She releases his hand, and his eyes linger on her face.

Before I can analyze him, Baldwin steps forward with a lazy smirk that usually precedes something inappropriate. “Well, well,” he drawls, his gaze dragging over Sophia’s body with deliberate slowness. “Dad’s little protégé all grown up. That dress leaves very little to the imagination, doesn’t it? Or is that the point?”

Sophia stiffens beside me even as I tighten my hold on her hip and move partially in front of her. “Watch your fucking mouth,” I snarl. “That’s my fucking wife you’re talking to. You can speak with her with the respect she deserves, or you’ll find yourself eating tonight’s dinner through a fucking straw.”

Baldwin raises his hands in mock surrender, his Cheshire cat grin matching his bold laugh. “Easy, brother. Just appreciating the view. You’ve always had excellent taste in women⁠—”

“Enough,” I cut in, stepping closer until we’re nearly chest to chest, and I can smell the scotch on his breath, before lowering my voice so only he can hear. “And if you ever fucking look at her like that again⁠—”

“Jesus, Vance. Relax a little,” Beckett interjects, moving to stand beside his twin. “He’s not wrong. She looks fucking good.” He turns to Sophia, offering a nod that’s almost respectful. “The dress suits you. Though Vance has always known how to dress a woman.”

Sophia’s hand finds mine, her fingers threading through it in a silent attempt to calm me. It doesn’t work. Even though they are my brothers, the possessiveness roaring through my veins is so primal, it’s barely contained. “How about you both keep your observations to yourselves?”

Baldwin opens his mouth, undoubtedly preparing some smartass response, but whatever he was about to say dies when Mom walks into the room. “Boys. Enough.” She moves past us into the library, her heels clicking against the hardwood as she admonishes us without raising her voice. She’s never needed to. “You may tease one another all you like, but regardless of how she got here, Sophia is family. I expect better manners from all of you.” She lightly slaps Baldwin’s chest with the back of her hand before continuing, “That means you don’t talk about her as though she’s one of the girls you entertain when you’re bored. I may be your mother, but I’m hardly unaware of your reputations.”

Baldwin’s expression sobers, and he gives her a small nod. “Yes, Mother.”