Zechariah stared at him as he watched it dawn on Darius for the first time. This man was going to get milked for everything.

Preferably by Zechariah.

And then Darius Carrington, only man still openly clinging to the ghost of Christopher and brother to a dead murderer in the casket in the next room … asked Zechariah to his bedroom, in a home teeming with overly curious guests. His brows hiked.

“I am certain there is somewhere better to talk, my friend,” he deadpanned.

Besides. Darius was a self-professed ass man.