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342 pages, Paperback
First published October 27, 2021



“I’m not letting you go, Freckles. I’m just not. You can call it a business arrangement, an affair, a kidnapping, some kind of midlife crisis. But whatever you call it, you’re mine. And I protect what’s mine.”
“God, I love all these freckles,” Jericho muttered almost to himself, licking and biting at his shoulder as if to prove it.
“We have a computer whiz, but we don’t even know what she looks like. My other brother—the one who likes to kill people—his husband is psychic and a former FBI agent so we use him when we need quick intel.”
He needed to know that Atticus was as territorial as he was, as fucked up over him as he was over Atticus. That he’d kill for him. Die for him. That this obsessive compulsion was a two-way street. That there was some kind of unspoken agreement that the only way out of this relationship—no matter how fucked up—was if one of them stopped breathing.
He propped himself up on a few of Atticus’s overstuffed, but insanely soft, pillows, then patted the space between his open legs. Atticus hesitated for a minute before sitting where Jericho wanted him.
Atticus didn’t openly acknowledge the casual affection but Jericho got to watch the flush run from his neck all the way to the tips of his ears before he took a handful of popcorn and stuffed it in his mouth, pointedly refusing to make eye contact again. When he brought his hands around to run across Atticus’s stomach, he shivered. Atticus was definitely in shape, not an ounce of fat on him, but sitting as he was, he had a belly, and Jericho found he really liked it.
