Page 68 of The Unexpected

Outside, the clock keeps ticking. The moon rises in the sky. And somewhere upstairs, Andie throws up quietly into a bathroom sink, probably thinking about the new life forming in her own stomach.

The world spins, same as always.

But in the dark of the study, with the door wide open and the lamp burning, I feel—for the first time in months—like maybe it’s not spinning out of my control after all.

24

MAKING UP

Hunter

The hour after a confrontation is almost worse than the fight. Even if you win, the taste is copper and regrets. And if you lose, you walk away at least knowing what broke. But this—this is something else.

We left Thomas’s mansion with no words, no backward glances. The city felt drained by the time we crossed it, streets more empty than full, the puddles at the curb crusted in thin rime that was less ice and more the memory of a cold. The drive to O’Toole’s apartment was pure silence, three ghosts in the black of my Mercedes, windows up, heater rattling, not even a radio to fake a pulse. Stella in the passenger seat, arms folded so tight her shoulder blades could have cut glass. Lachlan in the back, jaw working, hands gripping his own knees.

We get inside, and the place is spartan, as usual: a single table lamp casting an oval of honeyed light across the raw wood floor, the faint hangover of incense clinging to the walls and every book spined along the battered shelf. There’s a radiator in the corner, its clank the only sound, ticking time.

Stella sits first, knees to her chest, her dress riding up and pooling in inked folds around her thighs. She’s barefoot, her toes painted a delicate petal pink. The blue of her eyes is more than usually raw, and her mascara’s slightly smeared, but in a sexy way. I’m second—I take the armchair across, the one with the split in the leather and the shape of O’Toole’s back pressed in as if the man never stands up. Lachlan himself stays standing, moving to the kitchenette, pouring himself a glass of water he doesn’t even look at.

And for a long, almost sculpted minute, nothing happens.

I give it until the radiator’s tick runs down and then say, “I’m not going to fuck around with this. I know exactly what I want.” My voice is more tired than I’d like, but it’s steady. “Stella, I’m in love with you. Not the movie kind of romance, with hearts and unicorns and a sweet meet-cute. The kind where, if you left right now, I’d burn the city to get you back.”

She jerks, like a lightbulb flicked on. Her mouth drops, then closes. She blinks so hard a tear flies off her cheek.

O’Toole sets the water down. It leaves a ring on the counter. “Me too,” he says, voice low and no accent now, just steel. “I love you, Stella. I’m not sure it’s a good thing, or a right thing, but it’s true.” His eyes flick to her, then away. “You’re my family, and yet I still want you.” He shrugs, big shoulders curling inward. “Nothing else matters.”

Stella stares at us, and for a moment I think she’s going to hurl or run. Instead, her chin crumples, her shoulders shake, and she presses the back of her hand to her mouth. “Fuck,” she says. Then, “Fuck, I—” and it’s over, the dam breaks. She’s crying, ugly and real, more relief than misery. She wipes at her face, leaves black streaks on her palms, then looks up.

“I didn’t think it was possible,” she says, voice wet but gaining momentum. “To love two people. Or to have it…to have it not be a contest. I thought if I ever said it out loud, it would break the world.” She looks at O’Toole, then at me. “But I do. I love you. Both of you.” Her breath comes in a stutter. “I’m so fucking tired of feeling broken about it.”

I don’t even think. I cross the floor, drop to a knee in front of her. I take her chin in two fingers and tip her head up. Her skin is wet, but her eyes are bright, and they lock on mine like magnets.

“There’s nothing wrong with you, sweetheart,” I say. “Nothing. You’re the best thing I’ve ever wanted, and I don’t care how fucked up anyone else thinks it is.” I let her go, but don’t move away. “Here’s what I want. I want you to live with me. Full time. I want you in my bed and under my roof, and I want to use you whenever I want. If I want your ass at three in the morning, you give it to me. If I want you bent over my desk, you put your hands flat and spread your legs, even as I continue my conference call.” I don’t blink. “You belong to me. But you also belong to him.” I nod at Lachlan, standing over us, his hand now clutching the edge of the counter so hard it turns white. “We’ll share you. But I’m never letting you go.”

O’Toole makes a sound—half laugh, half cough. “That’s about the size of it.” He comes over, leans against the wall behind the couch, close enough that I can feel the heat off his arms. “I want you, too, sweetheart. I want to ruin you, over and over, and I want to see your face every morning and every night. If that makes me a monster, I don’t care.”

Stella’s shoulders uncoil. She lets out a long, jagged breath, and something in her eyes changes—less afraid, more liquid fire. She smiles, small and feral. “Deal,” she whispers, and then laughs. It’s shaky but alive. “God, I’m so fucked up, but yes. Yes. I want that.” She wipes her face. “I want both of you. I want all of it.”

There’s a moment when the three of us are locked in a gravity that could suck the city through the window and into this room. Then, slowly, she uncurls, her feet landing on the floor, and she looks at me with a question.

“What happens now?” she says.

I grin, for the first time in months. “Now, we do whatever we want.”

O’Toole’s mouth ticks up. “Yeah, but some things need to change.”

I cock my head. “Such as?”

He sits, finally, on the edge of the couch. His knees brush Stella’s. “I’m not staying at Trinity. I know it sounds dramatic, but I can’t walk back into that church and pretend everything’s the same. Not after what I learned. Not after what I want.” He glances at Stella, then at me. “There are other ways to help people. Private counseling. Or something outside the system.”

I nod. “That’s smart. We’ll set you up, if you want it. Or you can stay at my place as long as you like, since the church probably won’t let you keep this apartment.” I pause, then look at Stella. “What about you?”

She laughs again, shaky but clear. “I like my job, but I’m not a lifer at Nicolette. I’ve been thinking about maybe starting something of my own. I don’t know what yet, but…I want to be in control. For once.” Her eyes meet mine. “Would you help me? Even if it means angering the family?”

I smile, wide. “Sweetheart, I don’t give a fuck what other people think. Your dad’s already on board, and he wasn’t putting up any obstacles. Besides, I can bankroll anything you want. If you want a bakery, you get a bakery. If you want to run an underground BDSM club for horny milfs, we’ll build it together. You just say the word.”

Stella’s face glows. “That’s insane.”