Claimed by the Pack

She pulled back a bit, and made a face. A face that was very familiar to me, because she made it almost every time we spoke.

“It still boggles my mind, Ms. Weston,” she snarled. “You had all of Paris. You could’ve fucked anyone in the whole damned city — anyone at all — and you had to go and sleep with your contact?”

“Contacts,” I corrected her. “And yes. I slept with them.” I crossed my arms defiantly. “Both of them.”

At the same time, I wanted to add, but didn’t.

Xiomara grunted and shook her head slowly. “That sounds like a goddamn mess.”

“You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

The old woman sighed heavily into the phone’s camera. But looking past her designed expression, I thought I could see a glimmer of mischief in her eye.

“Well that mess is on you then, Ms. Weston. When it all goes south — and it invariably will — remember one thing: you are the architect of your own suffering.”

I wanted to tell her to fuck off. That I’d screw whoever I wanted, whenever I wanted. That I didn’t ask for or require her permission to make those types of decisions.

Instead I just sat there, letting her mock anger drain away to nothing. In truth, I thought maybe she was even a little bit proud of me.

“Are you done?”

“For now.”

“Good,” I said. “Because you need to send more people. Arato and Poole are up to their teeth in work right now, photographing, moving, and cataloging everything they can get their hands on down there. You want a mess, Xiomara? Come see it. That place is a fucking mess.”

She scoffed at me. “Only because you brought the ceiling down. They said you buried half the Order’s work beneath a pile of—”

“I saved that work,” I countered, “from being destroyed. And you’re welcome by the way.”

I reached over and grabbed a small stack of books, fanning them out in my hands for her to see. The West African woman’s entire face lit up with child-like excitement.

“Just wait until you see some of the stuff that’s down there,” I said proudly. “Might wanna put on a second diaper. You’re going to shit yourself.”

She caught herself practically drooling, and her expression hardened again.

“If there’s that much work,” she s

napped, “maybe you should get your ass down there and help? Arato and Poole could use your—”

“Because I’m taking some time off,” I said proudly. “Call it a much needed vacation.”

She barked out a short, vicious laugh. “I don’t remember ever—”

“You didn’t,” I said, stretching out across the enormous bed. “But I’m taking one anyway.”

I angled the phone intentionally so that she could see. We were still in the Executive Suite, three days later. Broderick was picking through a big platter of food room service had just brought up. Damien was at the foot the bed, my legs in his lap, expertly rubbing my calves.

“Hi mom!” he smiled and waved merrily from the background. Both of his forearms were still bandaged, wrist to elbow.

“Jesus Christ, Weston,” Xiomara exclaimed. “How long do you think you’ll—”

“Until I’m ready to come back,” I said. “And not a second before.”

There was a certain admiration in her eyes now, and not just because I had two beautiful men attending to me. Xiomara could be pushy as hell, but she’d always been somewhat of a champion for taking a stand.

“So you’re staying in Paris?”

“For a while,” I said. “Maybe I’ll even see some more of Europe. Norway sounds good right about now.”