Page 49 of Rescuing Ally: Part 1

“Not necessary,” Gabe replies without missing a beat, already stepping into his jeans. His smirk is lethal.

“We have plans for you today,” he continues, “and none of them involve clothes.”

Heat creeps up my neck. “That’s… ambitious.”

“We’re very motivated,” Hank says smoothly, pulling on his own shirt. His gaze rakes over me—assessing, claiming. “But first, food. You need your strength.”

I slip the shirt over my head, the fabric falling to mid-thigh. I reach for my discarded panties, but before I can even lift them?—

Hank catches my wrist.

“No.”

My pulse skips. “No?”

“No panties,” Gabe clarifies from behind me. His palm slides under the hem of the shirt to cup the curve of my ass.

“We want you accessible all day.”

A thrill shoots through me.

I should probably examine that reaction more closely.

Later.

“Yes, Sir,” I whisper, letting the lace slip from my fingers.

The possessive gleam in their eyes tells me that was the correct answer.

In the kitchen, Gabe handles food preparation with considerably more skill than Hank’s breakfast attempt—though, to be fair, that’s not a high bar to clear. I perch on a stool, watching as he moves around the space with a confidence that immediately raises suspicion. My phone buzzes on the counter, but I ignore it, narrowing my eyes at the scene unfolding in front of me.

“Hold up.” I fold my arms, glancing at Hank, who’s leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, watching Gabe like he’s expecting an impending disaster. “Whyis Gabe cooking?”

Hank snorts. “He’s not cooking. He’s making sandwiches.”

I arch a brow. “And that’s different, how?”

Hank gestures toward Gabe with a lazy wave of his hand. “Cooking implies heat, and he’s not allowed to touch anything that involves flames, burners, or hot oil after the incident.”

Gabe doesn’t pause, slapping mustard onto a slice of bread with unnecessary force. “It was a small grease fire.”

Hank turns to me, deadpan. “Small like a forest fire is small if you compare it to the sun.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “So, Gabe’s permanently banned from anything requiring heat?”

“Damn right he is,” Hank confirms. “The man boiled water once, and somehow—somehow—we needed a new microwave.”

“That was one time,” Gabe mutters, stacking slices of turkey onto the bread with the kind of intensity that suggests he’s ignoring us on purpose.

“And yet, it was enough,” Hank fires back, shaking his head. “Which is why I do all the cooking.”

I gesture to the half-assembled sandwiches. “Except, apparently, when it’s lunch.”

“Brunch, and that’s not cooking,” Hank says again, like this is a legal defense. “That’s assembling.”

Gabe finally turns, expression flat. “You want sandwiches or not?”

I glance at Hank. “What if I want my bread toasted?”

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