Page 67 of My Ex's Billionaire Brothers

“As okay as a father can be when three suitors are under his roof.” The twinkle in her eye says she knows exactly how loadedthat statement is. “But he’s done worse trust falls. Those pickets you drilled earlier impressed him.”

Gage opens his mouth. No sound emerges at first. “Huh.”

Mrs. Markoff pats my forearm as though smoothing a tablecloth. “When we come back tomorrow after the morning parade, I hope there’s peace.”

Before I can craft a polished reply, Mr. Markoff appears at the top of the stairs carrying a small overnight bag and a neatly folded quilt. He looks at Gage—pointedly—then at me, then toward Anya’s door. “She is safe?” It’s both question and warning.

“She is,” I answer.

“Then we go.” He nods once, a curt military motion. To Gage, he adds, “The front lock jiggles.” The unspokenmake sure the house is securehangs between them.

“I’ll see to it,” Gage says. He offers his hand. Mr. Markoff takes it—two men sealing a pact of provisional trust.

Seconds later, the front door snicks shut, and gravel crunches as their sedan rolls down the lane.

We sweep the cottage with disciplined efficiency—Gage and I share the task. Better four eyes than two. The windows are latched. Lattice gate is braced, though if Calvin is feeling particularly spirited, he could hop it. When we meet in the living room, Gage exhales a breath that rattles the blinds.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Where the hell did Calvin get the idea storming in here was smart?”

I straighten a crooked photo on the mantel—Anya as a child, gap-toothed, holding a plastic goldfish. “I doubt it was strategy. More reflex. He didn’t come to talk. He came to reclaim territory.”

Gage’s eyes simmer. “Territory he cared about only when someone else claimed it.”

“No. Whenweclaimed it. If any of our other brothers had shown an interest in Anya?—”

“He wouldn’t have batted an eye,” he says with new understanding. “This is a pissing contest for him. Calvin’s always been a piece of work, but after what he did to Hunter…”

I lower myself onto the sofa arm. The living room still smells of Chinese takeout and adrenaline. “Do we involve lawyers?”

He shakes his head once. “First, I speak with our mother—before Calvin spins a martyr’s tale about his violent brothers.”

I sigh. “She’ll want to quarantine the scandal.”

“She’ll try.” He crosses powerful arms, gaze distant. “But this? Calvin knocked Hunter out and terrorized Anya. We can’t let it slide. He could have killed Hunter.”

The thought sours my stomach. My brain scrolls through litigation possibilities. Restraining order, assault, trespass…I pivot to a smaller puzzle. “What now?”

Something unreadable passes through Gage’s gaze, but then Hunter emerges, blood wiped clean from his face. The swelling is down some. A relief. “Anya’s calmer, and she’d like to see you two.”

Gage’s jaw goes granite again. His steely gaze is on Hunter’s temple. “You need stitches?”

“Negative, Captain.” His grin wavers when he sees my expression, turns serious. “She’s waiting.”

The hallway looks less saccharine now that the house lights are off and only a lamp glows under the door of Anya’s room. Hunter knocks lightly.

Inside, she murmurs, “Come in.”

We file through—three large men negotiating the lace-draped vanity and feminine wallpaper—to find Anya perched cross-legged atop her canopy bed, suitcase handle sticking out from under the dust ruffle. Now that her plans have come to light, that handle looks like a threat. To what, I’m not sure. Her eyes are swollen but clear. Still the prettiest blue eyes I have ever seen. A single lamp shades the dolls into harmless silhouettes.

I sit first, careful of the ruffles, while Hunter drops onto the floor at her feet, long arms draped loosely on his knees. Gage remains standing, as if proximity to the door equals readiness.

I clear my throat—old board-meeting impulse. “Your parents left for the night. They want us to…talk.”

She nibbles her lip. “That was kind of them. Dad’s probably still furious.”

“Protective more than furious,” Gage says, leaning against the bedpost. “He’s not ecstatic about”—he gestures among us—“whatever we three are. But your mother’s more open-minded.” He smiles faintly.

“She did like having extra dishwashers.” Hunter snorts, then winces, pressing fingers to his bandage. “Even looked the other way when I over-sugared the tea.”