Page 121 of Axel

I just can’t believe one would ever betray another.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

AXEL

Ruby wears French fashion;it doesn’t wear her.

She stands with the Chanel fashion advisor, who’s summoned their tailor. The three stare at the mirrors, the staff admiring how the brilliant navy bouclé suit highlights Ruby’s sapphire eyes and fits her perfectly.

“Fuck,” Grant huffs, sitting in the chair beside me, admiring her, too. “Brother, I mean this with all due respect; don’t fuck this one up.”

She’s so beautiful, my heart hurts. It pounds, staring at my future.

“I don’t want to initiate her,” I admit. “I can’t offer her to another king. Not even once. Even though I have to.”

“I get it,” Grant mumbles back. “I only like sharing Delphine because it’s what she wants. She finally has control over her body. She decides who and how many, because we always choose each other in the end. And for too long, she had no choice.”

My mother rescued Delphine from a high-class Parisian brothel—the most exclusive in Europe. Delphine was the young, chosen prize of some of the most powerfulmen, including politicians, to the point that she held powerful secrets. To the point that she was worth more dead than alive.

Mom brought her here to hide, like we do.

Or did.

Grant was the first man who wanted to talk to Delphine, not fuck her. He learned French for her and taught her English, using the showFriends, and somewhere between Ross and Rachel, they fell in love.

While the tailor adjusts Ruby’s skirt hem to be shorter and sexier than usual, I ask Grant, “Has Mom been acting weird to you lately?”

He huffs, “You’re asking her son who just got shot. Sort of. She texts me four times a day to remind me to put arnica gel on my bruises. You mean that kind of weird?”

“I mean like she’s hiding something.”

“Big brother, my king.” He slaps my shoulder. “Our mother hides a lot. Like, I really didn’t want to hear the rumor that she’s the hottest dominatrix in town. But, that’s what I get for secretly being her son.”

“Hand me Clorox,” I growl. “I need to bleach that image from my mind.”

“Amirite?” he mutters.

It can’t be Grant. He’s the third oldest. He remembers too much about our father, too. He’d never sell us out.

“Michael?” I stare at Ruby. “Michael? Hello?”

Oh shit. She’s talking to me.

“Yes?”

“Can I speak with you, please?”

I rise and smooth my dress pants, remembering to play the Southern lawyer, not the suspicious Bratva son. As I approach Ruby, the Chanel staff retreat, leaving us by the mirrors.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Can I speak with you? In private?” She nods toward the lavish dressing room, and I follow, hoping this is about to be a naughty sub moment.

“You know,” I tease, “that suit pairs perfectly with the black lace bondage hood and blindfold you’ll be wearing tonight.”

She blinks, batting her thick lashes, processing before she frets, “But this suit doesn’t have a price.”

“Because you’re priceless.”

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