Page 276 of A Vicious Love

Julian picked up his oar and pointed it at Adrian. “No one is beating me this year.”

Adrian scoffed. “You won last year because Aunt Mirelle fell asleep during clue four and Victor had to carry both baskets.”

“I was resting my eyes.” Aunt Mirelle said, from beneath her hat.

I stepped onto the jetty beside Sienna while the Bellemeres lined up at their boats with oars, and the insane seriousness of a dynasty preparing for war by scavenger hunt.

Sienna adjusted her braid and looked at the boat.

I leaned closer. “You know how to row?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“You don’t?”

“No.”

Her eyes widened.

“Teach me fast, baby. I’m not letting us lose.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

JAMISON

Days of torture passed. Sienna and I got closer. She wasn’t as closed off with me after the first week. Today, the family decided it would be a great idea to stand outside in the sun. Again. For clay shooting. The afternoon had become hot enough to irritate me personally.

Harlan had heat. But this was country heat, and made the long-sleeved dress shirt I had worn impractical.

I lasted nine minutes.

Then I stopped beside the pavilion, handed Sienna my glass, and reached for the buckles of my shoulder rig.

She went quiet.

I did not look at her yet. That would have been indulgent, and I was busy saving myself from fainting in a family field surrounded by gun cases and lemonade. The black leather holster sat over my dress shirt because I had refused a jacket in this heat and I refused existing without weapons even more. Two guns rested beneath my arms. A knife sat flat against the leather line near my ribs. Practical. Visible enough to make polite people uncomfortable.

My preferred balance.

I unfastened the rig and handed it to Reeves.

He took it without comment, though his expression suggested he had already judged the entire afternoon and found it beneath all of us.

I opened the cuffs next, then the buttons, dragging the shirt off my shoulders. The black T-shirt underneath clung to my chest and back from the heat. My chains had warmed against my skin, dark metal at my throat, one pendant tucked half beneath the collar. Ink ran down both arms, disappearing under the short sleeves.

I shook the dress shirt once, folded it badly over the back of a chair, and held my hand out.

Reeves gave the holster back.

I slid into it again, leather settling over the black T-shirt this time, the weight of the guns returning beneath my arms. I adjusted the straps across my shoulders, checked the knife, then rolled my neck once. Better. Much better. The heat remained offensive, but at least I had stopped pretending I was built for garden society in formal sleeves.

When I finally looked at Sienna, she was staring.

Trying not to.

Failing immediately.