Page 39 of North’s Claim

I roll my eyes but clink the bottle anyway.

Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch movement. Nyxa’s finally coming out of the kitchen, Eva giving her a nudge that’s probably got her halfway to blushing. I don’t look at her again but I feel her.

The sun’s climbing higher, casting a lazy golden hue across the yard. It smells like smoke, meat, motor oil, and summer, all things that settle in my bones like home.

“Come on, Prez,” Rook says, tipping his bottle toward me. “You’re what now—thirty-three?”

I take a swig of my beer, then wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “Forty.”

The table goes dead silent.

Then Soul barks out a laugh and nearly chokes on his burger. “Shut the fuck up, you are not.”

“No way,” Colt mutters. “Forty?! You’re older than my damn uncle.”

Iron squints. “He’s lying. Look at him: no gray, no gut, and he still moves like he’s got a score to settle every damn day.”

“What’s your secret, Prez?” Rook asks, chin propped on his knuckles. “Kale smoothies? Goji berries?”

I lean back in the chair, stretching my legs out with a satisfied grunt. “Eating pussy for breakfast.”

The table explodes with howling laughter.

Colt drops his fork. “Fucking knew it!”

Soul whistles. “Damn, that’s the breakfast of champions right there.”

“And that’s why his skin’s still tight,” Iron adds with a smirk. “Collagen replenishment, baby.”

I shake my head, but my lips twitch. Can’t help it.

I glance at Nyxa out of the corner of my eye, cheeks redder than the coals in the barbecue. She’s got a death grip on her fork and looks like she wants to either melt into the chair or stab me with it.

Cute.

She’s sitting beside me, tucked into the curve of my arm like always, plate barely touched. Her smile’s there, but it’s thinner now. Eyes downcast.

“Something wrong?” I murmur against her temple, low enough that the others don’t hear.

She blinks fast. “No. Just a bit tired.”

Lie.

But she leans up, presses a soft kiss to my cheek, and slips from the bench before I can call her out on it.

I watch her disappear toward the tables.

“She kissed you like she was saying goodbye,” Soul drawls from across the picnic table.

I arch a brow. “The fuck does that mean?”

He sips his beer with a grin. “Means you’re in trouble, Prez.”

I grunt but don’t argue. Doesn’t feel like a fight, feels more like something’s simmering under her skin. Something she doesn’t know how to say.

Not yet.

Around midday the girls are over by the barbecue, seasoning steaks like a damn army unit. Tornado’s already on his third beer, shirt half unbuttoned, sunglasses on like he’s at the beach. Prospects are tripping over themselves trying to help, and one takes a nosedive over a bench, sending a plate of hotdog buns flying.