Page 87 of Taken Off Camera
And if Saint and I don’t fit that design, if Sebastian decides a cam boy doesn’t belong at his side, I won’t just lose him. We’ll vanish to keep the Rockfords’ secrets.
“For what it’s worth,” Milo says, interrupting my spiraling thoughts, “if Travis is a problem, we’ll treat him like a problem.” He dabs his mouth with his napkin, the gesture refined and final. “The onlyquestions are scale and timing.”
The matter-of-fact statement chills me more than Jade’s direct offer. This isn’t passion or anger or even justice. It’s pest control.
“Agreed,” Ezra adds, checking his watch. “Speaking of timing, we should continue this discussion in the study.”
Like a choreographed dance, breakfast ends. Chairs push back from the table with a synchronized scrape of legs over hardwood, and plates are gathered by staff who materialize from the periphery of the room, moving with the practiced invisibility of people trained to be unseen. The Rockfords rise and flow toward a side door, led by Ezra’s confident stride.
Sebastian’s hand finds the small of my back, warm through the thin fabric of my T-shirt. “Coming?”
Saint is already halfway across the room, eager to see what kind of setup billionaire killers have at their disposal. Phoenix and Damien head toward a different door, caught up in whispered conversation. Leo and Nolan have disappeared, perhaps excused from whatever planning comes next.
The side chamber waits, its heavy door propped open. I catch a glimpse of leather chairs, a polished table, the gleam of electronics. The war room. The place where the real conversation will happen, wherethese beautiful, terrible people will decide a man’s fate over coffee and perhaps pastries.
My pulse stutters. I have to decide now. Do I take the blindfold off and admit my hands have never been clean? Or do I keep covering my eyes and pretending I don’t understand what’s happening?
“Micah?” Sebastian’s fingertips trace small circles at the base of my spine as his pheromones rise to offer me comfort. “We don’t have to go in if you’re uncomfortable.”
His gentleness contrasts with what I now understand he’s capable of. Or what he tolerates. Or both. Was my shy Alpha a face he wore? Is the real Sebastian the one who sits at this table and discusses murder without blinking?
Or are they both real? The gentle and the ruthless, the protective and the dangerous?
“Would anything I say stop this?” I ask.
Sebastian’s pause tells me everything. “No. This man invaded your home, violated your privacy, and threatened you. In my family, that’s?—”
“Unforgivable,” I finish for him, the word bitter and sweet on my tongue.
He searches my face, waiting for judgment or acceptance.
“I want to hear the options,” I say, surprising myself with how steady I sound. “All of them.”
Sebastian’s expression softens with relief, and he cups my nape, thumb brushing over his Mark.
“Options it is,” he agrees, guiding me toward the waiting room.
I follow, the threshold between the dining room and the side chamber a boundary between the person I was and whoever I will become.
From here, there will be no turning back.
23
My fingers twitch at my sides as Sebastian guides me deeper into the room, his hand steady at the small of my back.
“Take a seat,” Sebastian murmurs, directing me toward a high-backed leather chair at the conference table dominating the center of the room.
The leather is cool beneath my palms as I grip the armrests. When I sink into it, the cushion molds to my body in a way that speaks of expense beyond anything I’ve ever sat in. My secondhand office chair at home might as well be a cardboard box in comparison.
Saint pulls out the chair to my right, angling it toward mine. His position blocks the direct line ofsight between me and Gabriel, who’s already tapping away at a laptop across the table. The message in Saint’s body language couldn’t be clearer. He’s here for me and not to play games with the other Alpha.
To my left, Milo slides into place without a sound, a tablet already in hand. His freckles stand out on his pale skin in the blue light of the monitors, making him appear younger than he did at breakfast. The illusion breaks when he turns toward me, nothing of youth in his expression, only calculation.
“Systems online,” someone announces from a workstation in the corner. The words float across the room, clinical and impersonal.
The wall of monitors flickers with images of street maps, security camera feeds, bank statements, and several windows of scrolling code that move too fast for me to track. One screen displays what I recognize as my apartment building, the camera angle capturing the front entrance where I’ve walked in and out hundreds of times.
Sebastian takes his place at the head of the table, the blue light from the monitors catching on the ridges of his scars. The effect transforms his face, the damaged tissue appearing almost metallic. His focus remains fixed on me as he settles into his chair, fingers steepled before him.
