Owned: A Mafia Menage Romance(132)

“But…” I had to say it. I watched him carefully. “Jackson--”

“Jackson will be fine,” he said.

I winced a little. Would he? Come to think of it - was he ever really fine with this? I was beginning to think Declan had bullied him, or at least pressured him into acting like he was.

“Say yes,” he demanded.

“I can’t just say yes,” I said, shaking my head. My thoughts were whirling. “Why can’t we just leave things how they are?”

He chuckled. “Things never stay the same for long,” he said with a finality that made my heart ache.

“Are you… breaking up with me?” I said with as much strength as I could.

He made some kind of sighing, groaning, wishy-washy noise. “I don’t know if breaking up is a word I would use. This has been awesome, truly. But everything has to evolve, doesn’t it? Evolve or perish.”

Fuck. Oh my god. Fuck. He is totally breaking up with me.

I stared at him with my mouth literally hanging open, groping helplessly for something to say. I felt like something I held in my arms was turning to sand and slipping away from me faster than I could gather it back up.

“Declan, I just… I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes.”

“I don’t want things to change.”

“Everything changes,” he said with a growing coldness. Then he walked toward me and kissed my hair sweetly. “We’re leaving in the morning, babe,” he said, with more tenderness, “and I hope you’re coming with us.”

As he turned away to walk down the hall, I looked out over the pool and toward the bedroom. The water cast light back up to the house and I could see Jackson in the window, his arms crossed over his belly. As I watched, he raised a hand slowly, and held it palm-out in a wave. Then he looked over his shoulder as Declan entered the room, and I couldn’t see him anymore.



###





BELOVED


Billionaire Brothers - Book 4

Meg Watson





CHAPTER 1


I SAT IN THE SAAB in the driveway with the motor idling for way too long, my hands mangling the steering wheel, my heart clawing at the inside of my chest like it wanted to be let out. More than anything, I was desperate to rush back into the house. I wanted everything settled and determined, either way.

What did Declan mean? He seemed so cold. I could feel a door closing, closing, closing in slow motion and there was nothing I could do about it. Or was there? I didn’t know.

And what did Jackson mean? What about us? Was there an “us?”

But I couldn’t go back in there. I needed space. Or maybe I thought they needed space to work it out between them. Were they talking about me? Did they know about each other’s plans?

I felt like the little M on the diamond pendant they had given me, only both sides of the chain were being jerked in opposite directions. I could feel myself being torn down the middle.

“Just go, Margot. Go somewhere,” I muttered angrily and threw the car into drive. As I edged down toward the street, I kept an eye on the rearview mirror, just in case. But nobody came after me. I was on my own.

The painting in the back seat was carefully crated so when I stopped at the stop sign, I opened the clips and jerked the convertible top back. The sun came down like a hammer, instantly heating the leather seats to dangerous, flesh-frying levels.

I didn’t mind. A little pain would be good for me, I thought. Singe off the frayed ends.

On a whim, I took the next right and found myself in front of Edna’s house. Raul stood atop a ladder with shears, shaving a precise layer of new growth from the artful hedges. My stomach churned as I remembered her rejection of me.

But she was right, I reminded myself sagely. And look at you now. You’re better for it.

But I couldn’t feel grateful about it. Maybe her blinking, what-can-I-do stare when she called my work “superfluous” had helped me dig through to the bubbling source of what was inspiring my new paintings, the ones I was so in love with, but still. My feelings were hurt and I planned on pouting about that for as long as it took.



***



Bridget was standing behind Melissa sighing and cough-gasping in frustration as the poor, drug-addled assistant tried to hang a porcelain bas-relief sculpture single-handedly on hooks suspended on wires. Melissa’s hair stuck out like an old stuffed animal and she grunted and whimpered as Bridget asked her to make minute, probably irrelevant adjustments.

“It’s crooked,” I called out as I walked up. Well, what can I say? Sometimes I like to throw blood in the water too.

“Wha…?” Melissa gasped, reaching out to the far end to push it up.

“To the left,” Bridget insisted for no real reason.