Page 22 of The Malibu Destiny

She tilts her chin up defiantly. "What's it to you? Aren't you here with that goddess with legs for days? What’s her name again—Jezebel or something?”

"Serafina.” I almost tell her Sera means nothing, but stop myself. Let her wonder. Let her burn with curiosity the way I'm burning right now.

"Serafina," she repeats, her eyes flashing. "Ironic name for someone hanging off you all night. Isn't that some kind of angel?"

"Seraphim. Six-winged angels of purity." I can't help but smirk. "And yes, the irony isn't lost on me."

"So she is your date." Her voice drops, almost challenging me to deny it.

I don't answer. Instead, I reach out, almost touching one of the vibrant green streaks in her hair. "This is new."

Her hand flies up, fingers grazing mine for a split second that sends electricity through my veins. "It's temporary. I'll fix it before Monday. Jack thought⁠—"

"Don't." The word comes out like a command. "It's perfect on you."

The blush that spreads across her cheeks hits me like a physical blow. My hands curl into fists to keep from grabbing her right here, surrounded by half of LA's elite. Christ, I've never wanted anyone like this.

Blake arrives back. His hand slides onto her lower back, his lips brushing her ear. Her laughter hits me like a fist to the gut. Something primal surges through my veins—hot, electric. My MMA training kicks in: target assessment, muscle memory, the sweet spot where his jaw meets his neck.

Before I can stop myself, I've ripped his hand away from her body. The bones in his wrist grind together under my grip. My vision narrows to a tunnel with only him at the end of it. "Try that again," I say, my voice dropping to something barely human. "Give me a reason."

Lilith's eyes widen to saucers as she takes in the scene—my fingers crushing Blake's wrist bones, his face contorting in shock. The fool should've known better. Lilith is MINE. Period. End of fucking discussion.

I register the glint of smartphone cameras in my peripheral vision, guests salivating over their next viral moment. Let them. They can plaster my face across every goddamn screen on the planet. My blood is lava in my veins as I stare down this pathetic excuse for a man—the same degenerate who tried to desecrate my koi pond—now daring to put his goddamn hands on MY woman. Something primal tears through me, a white-hot rage that obliterates rational thought. This. Ends. NOW.

Cameron's voice cuts through my rage like a knife. "Rome."

My brother. The peacemaker. Sent to stop me from ripping Blake limb from limb in front of half of Los Angeles. But I'm not fucking moving. Not while that bastard's hand is still hovering near Lilith's waist.

"Asher needs you. Bar for the next tableau. Heavy as hell. You're the only one who can move it," he says, clapping my shoulder with a grip that could crush granite.

My pulse hammers in my skull, drowning out everything but the sight of Blake's fingers, five inches from what's mine. I want to tear his arm off and beat him with it.

“Lilith. Now." I seize her hand, and holy shit—lightning strikes my body, a white-hot current searing through me straight to my core. Her skin is impossibly soft against my calloused palm, delicate bones beneath my grip, and that goddamn jasmine scent of hers floods my senses, making my mouth go dry. My thumb brushes over her pulse point, feeling it flutter like a trapped bird. This is the first time I’ve ever touched her, and holy fuck. The electricity I feel could light up this entire room.

"I—" She glances at Blake, who's practically trembling with relief now that I've released his wrist. Coward. "I should stay⁠—"

The rejection hits like a sledgehammer. My jaw clenches so hard I taste metal.

"Fine," I spit, dropping her hand. "Let's move the goddamn bar, Cam, before I decide to use it as a battering ram."

Cam's arm lands heavy across my shoulders as we head backstage. "Roman," he says, his voice dropping. "What the hell was that with Blake Walsh? You know he's practically royalty in this crowd, right?"

I roll my shoulders, waiting for my pulse to settle. "Yeah, whatever. So am I.” Time to change the subject. “Where's the bar setup?"

"Just there." He points. "Next up is Nighthawks. They need muscle for that triangular counter—someone bailed last minute. And since you're built like a brick shit house..." He gives me a brotherly jab. "These art patrons couldn't lift their wallets without breaking a sweat. But you? You could probably deadlift that 2,000-pound monster solo."

My blood's still running hot enough that I almost want to try.

I grab my end of the bar, and together we hoist it onstage. The performers hover nearby—an older guy in crisp whites with that paper soda-jerk cap; a woman with finger waves and a crimson dress straight out of the '40s; two men in period suits complete with fedoras. The set materializes around us: storefront backdrop, diner façade, "Phillies" sign overhead, stools precisely arranged.

My mind jumps ahead to the Velázquez tableau—Las Meninas with its royal Spanish family, the intricate arrangement of courtiers, children, a dwarf, those paintings-within-paintings. And a dog.

I catch Cam's eye and laugh, the sound bouncing off the marble floors. "Hey Cam, one burning question about that Velázquez setup—how exactly is Ash planning to make a dog sit still for thirty minutes under these blazing studio lights?"

Cam runs a hand through his dark hair, the same shade all us Kensington brothers share - all but Ansel, who’s hair is dirty blonde. "Oh right, that painting does feature a dog. Slipped my mind." His broad shoulders rise in a shrug. "Well, if Asher can somehow wrangle a fidgety six-year-old to stand still for a half hour in that ridiculous period costume, I guess he's enough of a miracle worker to hypnotize a dog into statue-like obedience." His mouth curves into that familiar crooked smile. "Just kidding. Even Asher's legendary charm has its limits. He probably commissioned some hyperrealistic canine replica for the tableau. The alternative—Asher slipping some poor mutt a Xanax—is too disturbing to contemplate."

I feel the tension in my jaw release as I laugh, grateful for this moment of lightness after the storm cloud that had been hanging over me minutes ago.