“I thought tonight was family dinner,” Neil says with a wary glance around the table. He’s across from me, with his wife at his side.

We’re all sitting like good little soldiers around a table that can easily fit twenty. Three enormous antique silver candelabrum march down the center of the table festooned with sugared fruits and evergreen garland. Porcelain vases, filled to bursting with lush red hothouse roses, sit on either end of the table. Candlelight glitters on the celadon and gold china, silver flatware, and cut crystal glasses.

It’s all very pretty. For hell.

Xander, who’s at the head of the table, glowers at his younger brother over the rim of his wineglass. “I’m not sure what you mean, Neil. Are we not eating?”

I’m fairly certain everyone knows what good old Neil means. But he makes sure he’s very clear by pointedly glancing at me, Whip, Jax, Scottie, Sophie, and Stella. “Looks more like a party for your son’s friends than family dinner.”

Killian makes a noise like he’s about to rip into his uncle, but Libby touches his wrist, and he merely glares.

Xander sets down his glass. “My son’s friends are family.”

“More like another excuse for a photo op,” Neil mutters, taking a bite of beef.

“You see any cameras around here, Neil?” Killian grits out.

“No, but the night is young, boy.”

I swear, Killian is a second away from lunging down the table to strangle him. I’d approve, if it weren’t for the pained flutter of Brenna’s lashes as she stares down at her uneaten dinner.

“Tell me, Sophie,” Isabella says in an overly bright voice, “how is little Felix handling the time difference?”

Sophie’s brown eyes go wide, and I know she’s not exactly pleased to be picked out of the herd. But she is a socializing pro and slides easily into a breezy tale about Felix staying up all night and driving Scottie to plead on his knees for his toddler son to give it a rest.

Sophie’s grin is wide and infectious as she laughs, remembering the moment. “Gabriel ended up reading Felix Go the Fuck to Sleep—”

Patricia’s strangled gasp of horror cuts Sophie off. “You read that? To a child?”

Scottie inclines his head her way. His expression could freeze over hell. “Twice, to be precise.”

Lips twitching, Jax takes a hasty sip of wine, and I know he’s holding on by a thread. We all are.

Patricia’s mouth tightens. “It’s immoral…”

“Mom,” Brenna cuts in, strained. “He’s a baby. He doesn’t understand the words, just the rhythm of the story.”

“That’s no excuse.” Patricia dabs her lips with her linen napkin. “Then again, look at what he’s growing up around.”

It sucks all the air from the room. Every single one of us tensing in a collective breath of anger. For the first time in years, I’m fairly certain Scottie is about to lose his shit.

Brenna leans in, resting her forearms on the table as she gives her mother a bland smile. “Surrounded by people who love and support him? The horror.”

“Mind your sarcasm, young lady.” Patricia sets her napkin down. “Your father and I did our best to guide you in the right direction. And still you end up here, hanging on the fringes of this degenerate rock band, wearing those ridiculous heels, and sleeping around with God knows what.”

What. As though a person whose lifestyle she doesn’t approve of or understand is a thing. As though Brenna is one by association.

All the color leaches out of her beautiful face, but her eyes spark with fire. She doesn’t shout or snap. Her tone is perfectly even when she replies, “If you want to know about my sex life, just ask, Mother.”

“Brenna.” Neil slaps a hand on the table.

“Father,” she replies neutrally.

“Pay her no mind, Neil,” Patricia says. “She’s only being fresh because I’m right. She’s been living off Killian’s charity instead of making her own way—”

“Bullshit.”

Every head turns my way.

Right. I said that. I can feel Brenna’s gaze, shocked and wide on me.

What are you doing? You’re supposed to charm the parents of the woman you want in your life, not antagonize them, you moron.

But fuck this. I cannot sit here listening to them systematically tear her down.

Neil sneers. “Pardon?”

“Your daughter is bold, intelligent, and one of the most respected people in the music industry. She’s the living heart of this band. She doesn’t hang on to us. She holds us up.” You complete and utter dick drizzle. “And if you can’t see how great she is, then you don’t deserve her.”

Scottie raises his glass. “Hear, hear.”

Our friends follow suit, all of them wearing various expressions of fierce protectiveness and simmering rage.

Under the table, a touch, light as butterfly wings, flits along my outer thigh, snagging the whole of my attention. Without looking her way, I let my hand fall beneath the tabletop and find Brenna’s. Hers is cold and clammy. Heart clenching, I rest mine on top of her hand, holding it firmly against my thigh where she’ll be warm.

“And who are you, again?” Neil studies me as if I’ve crawled out from under the floorboards.

“The drummer,” Patricia says in an undertone that implies, What else should you expect from such a low creature?

Whip snickers under his breath, but I know he’s far from amused. We share a quick look of perfect understanding. If they weren’t Brenna’s parents, we’d have marched them out of here an hour ago.

“The bassist, ma’am. I also go by Degenerate Number One.”

Jax coughs into his napkin. And Neil reddens.

All right, it was a cheap shot. I need to reel it in for Brenna’s sake, no matter how good it feels to knock her shit parents down a peg. She doesn’t look my way, but under the table, her fingers spread over my thigh. She rubs me just once, a tiny movement that I feel along the whole of my side.

Patricia flushes a deep berry that’s uncomfortably similar to the way Brenna blushes. “I never implied you weren’t intelligent, Brenna. Or capable. That is the point. You could do so much better.”

Brenna’s hand slips away from me, and she rests her fist on the table. “I honestly cannot conceive of anyone better than these people, Mother.”

“Willfully stubborn,” Neil remarks, taking another bite of his beef. “Blinded by fame and excess. Mark my words, young lady. One day you’ll regret it. You’ll be alone and—”

“Oh, leave off, Neil,” Xander snaps. “Your issue isn’t with Brenna or Rye. If you want to have a go at me, wait for after dinner. I’ll be more than happy to accommodate you. But you’re putting everyone off their roast.”

“So superior, Xander. In your Italian loafers, playing country lord of the manor.”

“Well, one ought to wear the proper footwear when lording,” Xander intones.

I’ve always liked Xander.

Neil turns redder. “And this farce of a birthday celebration. Just one big, happy family, eh?”

Xander’s eyes narrow, and I swear Isabella flinches. Neil sees her discomfort too.