Page 68 of The Tenth Circle
Because it’s been building around me since last night.
Like a storm cloud swallowing up a blue sky, Saint appears in the doorway—dressed to kill me in a light gray suit.
The fabric kisses every curve of his toned muscles as well, if not better than his dad’s. My gaze dips to the navy tie around his neck, knotted pristine, then to the jacket he’s got one hand hidden behind.
Not a wrinkle or blemish. Just beauty and perfection.
The end result of having a body carved by the gods.
Saint takes in my…under-prepared state…his gaze crawling up my body like tiny ants. The look of amusement in his grin has the room tilting on its axis, and me along with it. Archer can sense me crumbling, so he squeezes tighter on the flesh of my ass through my pink octopus sleep shorts.
Sleep shorts I’mstillin thanks to my mother bum rushing me with a visit from the family of fucking Asgard.
“Hendrix.” Mom’s voice breaks me out of my resentment. “This is Vic Lavell and his family.”
Vic’s lips spread kindly as he approaches, which is when I notice the bouquet of purple roses Saint hands over to him.
“Hello, Hendrix. It’s nice to see you again.” He offers me the flowers, and reluctantly, I take them. With a jut of his chin he beckons his offspring, not continuing the greeting until they’re at each of his sides.
“This is my daughter Theory.” He places a hand on her shoulder, then to the guy who’snowrefusing to look at me. “And I believe you already know my son Saint.”
More like already fucking hate him.
I call Theory’s bright smile, and raise her an awkward one, ignoring her shit brother.
“Hi.”
“Hey.” She beams through a wave.
Remembering every nasty thing I said about the girl, I sidestep my guilt by focusing on the purple roses.
An odd choice of color, but equally beautiful.
The scent of them screams expensive: soft, fruity, and sweet. As if plucked straight from a castle’s garden. I can’t help but bring the entire bouquet to my nose.
“I hope you like them…” Vic states, genuine.
I cast a glance to my mother, who’s resorted to pleading with her eyes, and respond to his kindness with a simple, “I do…thank you.”
“Well, I’m glad.” He claps his son on the back. “Because Saint, here, is the one who told me your favorite color is purple.”
With daggers for eyes I pin him, and once again Saint’s back to being Saint.
A cocky asshole as he mouths the word ‘haze’.
Fists clenching and about to rip him a new one, Archer saves Saint’s neck by breaking the tension.
“Nice suit, Lavell.”
“Nicejammies, Beaumont.”
Archer and I look down at his flannels, which are a hell of a lot less embarrassing than my octopus shorts.
“Shall we sit?” Mom suggests with a hand toward the dining room table. “Don’t want breakfast to get cold.”
“Absolutely.” Vic claps. “I’m starving.”
Speak for yourself, Vic.
