Page 345 of A Vicious Love

He kissed me again, then drew back with visible resentment.

“My convoy and, my house tonight. Promise.”

“I promise.”

I smiled softly.

That answer seemed to settle something violent inside him. He kissed my forehead, took my hand, and led me down the stairs.

The driveway outside House Alder was full of cars. Black Crow vehicles in a line, Bellemere cars behind them, staff moving with quiet precision. My family had gathered near the gravel sweep for goodbyes. Children ran around legs, cousins hugged, aunts cried as if the retreat had been a tragic voyage rather than four weeks of lake activities and overcatering.

Mila threw herself at Jamison’s leg.

He looked down at her. “No.”

She wrapped both arms around him. “Bye, Uncle Jamison.”

His face went still in the way I had come to understand meant he had been defeated.

He rested one hand on her head. “Goodbye, Mila.”

“And Honey,” she said, holding up the rabbit.

Jamison glanced at the stuffed rabbit. “Goodbye, Honey.”

Mila beamed as if a king had knighted her.

My mother kissed my cheek and examined my face for evidence. Sabine hugged me gently, whispering that I looked different, and Henri gave Jamison a nod that carried a conversation I couldn’t hear. Adrian hugged me last.

“Text when you’re back,” he murmured.

“I will.”

His eyes moved to Jamison, then back to me. “You sure?”

I looked at Jamison standing by the car, one hand on the open door, watching me as if every second away from him was an inconvenience he intended to correct.

“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.”

Adrian’s jaw worked once, but he kissed my hair and let me go.

Jamison handed me into the car himself.

The inside smelled of leather, smoke, and him. The windows were tinted dark enough that the entire world outside became softened into shapes. Another car pulled ahead. Then another. The convoy started down the long drive, away from House Alder.

The drive back to Harlan would take five hours if traffic behaved. Nearly six if the city choked itself, which it usually did near evening.

I sat beside him properly for the first twenty minutes. Then his hand settled on my thigh. I leaned into him. His mouth brushed my temple.

After that, dignity gave up.

I ended up curled against his side, my legs tucked under me, my head on his shoulder while the countryside moved past in green and gold blurs. He worked for a while with one arm around me and his phone in the other hand, answering messages with short replies that made men on the other end speak faster. I listened to the low rhythm of his voice, the clipped Harlan tone was back.

But between calls, he kissed me.

Every time.

A kiss to my forehead. A kiss to my mouth. Once, when I shifted and winced, a kiss to my temple paired with a look so stern that I nearly apologized for my own body.