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The Men With the Golden Cuffs(133)



She fell forward, utterly exhausted and completely happy.

“You okay, baby?” Jake asked, settling in behind her.

Adam snuggled close. “Were we too rough?”

“You were perfect.”

Jake sat up, his hand moving to the nightstand. When he came back, he reached for her hands.

“Do it, buddy. This way she can’t run again.” Adam grinned.

Cool metal pressed around her wrists. Handcuffs. “Guys, I’m not going anywhere.”

There was a deep look of satisfaction on Jake’s face. “Nope. Not ever again. And I just might keep you chained to the bed for our whole honeymoon.”

He kissed her again, and then Adam had his turn. She couldn’t move her hands, but suddenly those cuffs seemed like the most beautiful jewelry she’d ever worn.





Chapter Twenty-Four





Serena hung the phone up, her head reeling a little.

“Who was it?” Chris asked. He sat beside Bridget on the patio with a margarita in his hand.

All around them, the party continued on. Her wedding party. She was married. She and Adam had gone to the justice of the peace, and she and Jake had solemnized their union   at the club the night before. She had a wedding ring on her finger and a small gold collar around her neck, and her men had presented her with one more gift. A set of golden handcuffs to bind her. They had broken those cuffs in the night before, the perfect end to a perfect day.

Now all their friends were here, drinking and talking and wishing them well. Jake’s parents and brothers had even come in. They’d been thrilled Jake was involved with someone creative.

Adam’s family had declined her calls, but he hadn’t seemed to care.

She looked at him, laughing at something Sean said. This was Adam’s family. This was her family.

And she had both a new name and a new title.

“It was Maureen.”

Jake passed her a fresh margarita. “The new agent?” He motioned for Adam to come over. “What’s wrong?”

Maureen Childress had taken over Lara Anderson’s clients. She’d been friends with Lara and had tearfully asked that she be able to assist Lara’s closest authors. She’d been a rock, handling everything she could from her New York office.

Bridget leaned forward, only wincing a little. She’d lost her spleen and dumped her boyfriend, but she was already on the mend. “Is she fielding those damn reporters again? Tell them to fuck themselves. Your personal life isn’t their story.”

“Down, Bridget. Don’t pull your stitches. You don’t want to screw up your date with the EMT guy tomorrow.” Chris put a hand on hers.

Bridget smiled. ”No, I don’t. That man is so sexy. I swear I’m getting some hot man ass out of this whole ‘getting sliced up by a psycho’ thing. I have to admit that I understand why the press is sniffing around. Writers get screwed by their agents every day, but we actually almost got murdered. It’s a hell of a story. God, this business sucks.”

Chris shook his head. “And she wouldn’t be anywhere else. She’s already twenty thousand words into a book about an assault survivor and the team of doctors who save her.”

“And fuck the hell out of her,” Bridget said with a grin. “Mega ménage. Oh, and the doctors are also super-secret billionaires who happen to be werewolves. If I can work a secret baby angle in there, I’ll hit all the tropes. God, I really love being a writer.”

Adam frowned. “You’re not allowed to write mega ménage, Serena. You’re a traditionalist.”

Yep. She slept between the two of them every night. Very traditional. “I’m also a New York Times best-selling author. Their Sweetheart Slave hit the E-list.”

Sure, it had taken the publicity from the whole stalker debacle, but it had happened. A wistful sadness struck her. She wished Lara was here to see it.

But then she was wrapped in their arms, congratulations flowing. Adam and Jake kissed her and then started to bring out champagne for everyone.

Serena laughed, getting caught in the moment. She was surrounded by this mish-mashed family she’d managed to find.

And her happy ending was just waiting to be written.







Hours later, Liam O’Donnell sat in his office, watching, waiting for that one little signal. He wasn’t sure how it would come. E-mail. Internet alert. Phone call from a source.

But he knew it would come. He would find Mr. Black, the man who had almost killed Sean Taggart. The man who had gotten away with treason. He would find him, and he would make him pay. He pretended not to care, but then he pretended about everything. He’d lied for so long, he often wondered if he would recognize the truth about himself if he found it.