V camouflaged his startle routine by taking a hand-rolled out of the pocket of his leathers. The cop had spoken so quietly there was no way anyone else had heard it, and this was a good thing. Yeah, he was trying to ditch the ultrareserved shit, but he didn’t want anyone to know how far he and Butch had gone. That was private.
Flicking up a light, he inhaled. “Yeah. I really fucking am, true.” Then he glanced into the hazels of his best friend. “And . . . you?”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
“Cool.”
“Cool.”
Heeeeeeeeeeey, check his shit out with the relating. Any more of this and he was going to get a gold star on his chart.
A knuckle tap later and Butch was back to the game, lining up his first shot as V basked in the glow of interrelating like a pro.
He was taking another hit from his short-and-squat of Goose when his eyes skipped to the arched doorway of the room.
Jane hesitated as she glanced inside, her white coat opening as she leaned to the side, as if she were looking for him.
When their eyes met, she smiled a little. And then a lot.
His first impulse was to hide his own grin behind his Goose. But then he stopped himself. New world order.
Come on, smile, motherfucker, he thought.
Jane gave a sho
rt wave and played it cool, which was what they usually did when they were together in public. Turning away, she headed over to the bar to make herself something.
“Hold up, cop,” V murmured, putting his drink down and bracing his cue against the table.
Feeling like he was fifteen, he put his hand-rolled between his teeth and tucked his wife-beater tightly into the waistband of his leathers. A quick smooth of the hair and he was . . . well, as ready as he could be.
He approached Jane from behind just as she struck up a convo with Mary—and when his shellan pivoted around to greet him, she seemed a little surprised that he’d come up to her. “Hi, V . . . How are—”
Vishous stepped in close, putting them body to body, and then he wrapped his arms around her waist. Holding her with possession, he slowly bent her backward until she gripped his shoulders and her hair fell from her face.
As she gasped, he said exactly what he thought: “I missed you.”
And on that note, he put his mouth on hers and kissed the ever-living hell out of her, sweeping one hand down to her hip as he slipped his tongue in her mouth, and kept going and going and going . . .
He was vaguely aware that the room had fallen stone silent and that everything with a heartbeat was staring at him and his mate. But whatever. This was what he wanted to do, and he was going to do it in front of everyone—and the king’s dog, as it turned out.
Because Wrath and Beth came in from the foyer.
As Vishous slowly righted his shellan, the catcalls and whistling started up, and someone threw a handful of popcorn like it was confetti.
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout,” Hollywood said. And threw more popcorn.
Vishous cleared his throat. “I have an announcement to make.”
Right. Okay, there were a lot of eyes on the pair of them. But he was so going to suck up his inclination to bow out.
Tucking his flustered and blushing Jane into his side, he said loud and clear: “We’re getting mated. Properly. And I expect you all to be there and . . . Yeah, that’s it.”
Dead. Quiet.
Then Wrath released the handle on George’s harness and started to clap. Loud and slow. “About. Fucking. Time.”
His brothers and their shellans and all the guests of the house followed suit, and then the fighters broke out into a chant that raised the roof and then some—their voices vibrating through the air.