Muscle and Bone - Mary Calmes Page 0,2

solemn judgement.

“I’m sorry?” she replied, affronted.

“Action movies, MMA fights, hockey, documentaries about the mob, boxing, you’re all about blood and gore, lady. Back in the day I bet you would have gone to the coliseum and watched the gladiators.”

“Who?” She feigned shock, clutching her chest. “Me?”

I tsked at her, curling a piece of hair that had come loose from her long, thick side-braid, around her ear. “I can tell I’ve insulted you deeply.”

“To the quick,” she agreed, cackling as my father, Alexander Huntington, owner and chairman of the board of Huntington, one of the biggest builders in the country, stepped in front of us, scowling.

“Hello, darling,” she cheerfully greeted the man she loved, reaching for his hand, which he instantly clasped.

“Hey there, old man,” I taunted, giving him a quick clap on the shoulder.

I didn’t think his scowl could get any darker, but with those blue-black eyes of his, made somehow even more foreboding with his black hair and silver sideburns, it was possible.

“When your brother calls you,” he admonished through clenched teeth, “you treat that the same as if I were calling you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“I’m serious, Avery.”

“No, I know. But how many times in my life would you guess you’ve said that to me? Throw out a number.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Avery.”

My name was always uttered with the same mix of exasperation and resignation by the man who’d carried me around on his shoulders when I was a child. He loved me and wanted to throttle me in equal measure.

“C’mon, let’s quantify it,” I baited him, pushing like I always did.

“I’m certain I have no earthly idea.”

“Let’s say a million, just to be in the ballpark.” I snickered and turned so I was beside him, draping my arm across his shoulders. “Tell me, and be truthful.”

“You––”

“Has telling me to listen to Ambrose ever worked out for you?”

“This,” he growled at my mother, gesturing to all of me, “is your fault.”

“Well, yes, I should hope so,” she agreed, beaming at him, completely unfazed.

He sighed deeply, clearly resigned, long-suffering, and then turned to me, pulling me into a tight hug, nuzzling his face into my hair and inhaling deeply. That maneuver was all wolf and left his scent on me, which marked me as his offspring, his child, his son. His own.

“Oh!” My mother whimpered in delight at seeing us together.

When he leaned out of the embrace, I noticed his furrowed brows were back. “You couldn’t have shaved?”

“I was in a hurry,” I assured him, drawing out the last word. “I work out of the Eighteenth District, old man. Do you know how far that is, in traffic, from here?”

“Yes, but––”

“And you wanted me here at six?” I scrunched up my face and shook my head at him. “You’re lucky the monkey suit is clean.”

He was about to say something when my bicep was grabbed and I was spun around to face my brother. Ambrose’s deep, dark midnight blue eyes, the same as our father’s, were trained on me, along with the familiar glower perfected by Alexander Huntington. Only the silver at the temples was missing from my brother’s hair. What was different, what softened his face, were the laugh lines. Ambrose Huntington was a serious man, but his wife never let him get away with anything, and she made him smile often. I was grateful for her every day and thankfully she was there, slipping between us, a sliver of joy in a scarlet crushed-silk gown.

Dove Huntington lifted her arms, and I bent and hugged her, lifting her off her feet for a moment, making her giggle with delight.

“Can you two please not,” Ambrose groused at me as she kissed my cheek.

“How are you, you gorgeous thing?” she purred as I set her back down on her feet, gazing up at me in absolute adoration, waiting for my answer.

“I’m good,” I told her, taking her hand as she slipped it into mine. “We caught the guy wanted in those acid attacks on the models.”

She gasped. “Was it who you and your partner thought?”

I nodded. “It was, fortunately, and we caught him before he hurt anyone else.”

“You know what he’s doing?” my brother asked her.

“You don’t follow the crime in this city?” Andrea Donahue, my sister, appeared beside my father. “My God, Ambrose, how can you not?”

He threw up his hands in defeat as Andrea stepped into the small family circle we made and opened her arms for me.

I greeted her just as I had Dove, lifting her off