“No, Dyadya,” she complained. “The game’s not pink.” She threw her hands up in frustration. “Everything’s pink.” “Princess Makeover?” “Nyet,” she sighed. “That one wasn’t pink,” he returned. She rolled her eyes. “Fuchsia is almost pink.” This little girl was making me feel like my IQ could use a boost. Ronan continued to scroll through the list of games before stopping on one that had no resemblance to the color pink. “The Princess’s Reign of Terror?” Her eyes lit up. “That one!” I couldn’t hold in a laugh. She grabbed the cell from Ronan’s hand and dived into The Princess’s Reign of Terror. Seconds later, noises blared from the phone: slices of blades, groans of pain, and a, “Cut off his head!” “Well, this looks cozy.” I turned my head to see Christian in the doorway dressed in a threepiece suit without a single wrinkle. I shifted, a little self-conscious at being caught in his brother’s bed willingly—the one who had me tied up naked the last time Christian was here. Though he didn’t seem surprised or even interested in me, which eased any awkwardness. Christian was the kind of man who made a woman’s mouth dry just by looking at him, but as flawless as he was, I preferred his brother’s imperfections. That scar on his bottom lip. All the ink. His jaded soul I’d seen warm just for me. Christian looked like Gabriel the archangel. Ronan was every part D’yavol. I knew if they stood on separate sides of an alley and I was running from danger . . . Pd jump into D’yavol’s arms. “Your daughter was complaining of the emotional trauma you just put her through,” Ronan said. “What kind of uncle would I be if I turned her away?” “A bad one,” the girl said without looking up from her game. I bit my lip to hold in a smile. “Kat,” Christian said with a warning. She looked up at him and deadpanned, “Papa.” “Breakfast table right now.” “Is there pancakes?” she challenged.