Brody whirls but gazes past me rather than at me. He whistles as if calling a dog.
What the hell?
The bald goon with the neck tattoo barrels my way. These guys literally come out of the woodwork on command, I swear.
This one hooks his beefy hand around my bicep. I yank my arm to no avail. Feigned compliance becomes my only viable choice.
“Take her to her room.” Brody spins back around to follow his men as they drag Kellin down the hall.
Bald Tat and I round the corner to an elevator.
Accompanied by my babysitter, I smash the up button and wait the longest two minutes of my life so he can escort me to my room and free up my brother to hurt Kellin.
When the doors open, we step inside, captor and hostage.
“Do you mind?” I gesture at his hand.
He releases me, and I approach the panel and press “six” for my floor. Then I pivot, knee the guy in the balls, and slip through the doors just as they’re closing.
I race back the way we came, hurrying after Kellin and Brody.
I know the Cypress better than the men in my family.
I know where they took him.
I zip left, right, left, and into the hallway off the second kitchen—the prep room—that eventually leads to the back entrance where we receive deliveries. The door to a secluded storage space sits right next to it.
Damn!I watch that door slam, my heart sinking when I realize I left my key card and purse—along with the tattered remains of my life—in the chair room.
Five excruciating minutes later, I’m in front of the storage area I use for extra dishware and linens and my father uses for torture and the like.
I pause outside the door to gauge what I’m walking into and hear my father’s voice through the metal.
“A Gallagher. You’re a fucking Gallagher.”
“You’rea fucking Gallagher. I’m a fucking Brennan.”
Even tied up, Kellin’s fighting.
“All that matters is you’re New York. Finn’s errand boy.”
“Actually, I’m an independent contractor.”
My father’s laugh scrapes my ears like sandpaper. “Well, you’re mine now. It’s about time that I won and you assholes lost. Did you really think you’d pull one over on me by getting my daughter to spread her legs?”
Rage colors Kellin’s words. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that!”
“The little whore could’ve shown better taste in men.”
A sword to my heart.
Thanks, Dad, for the kind words and vote of confidence.
I shake off what I just heard. I’m not about to let this man drive me to tears. It’s not the first time he’s called me—or any other woman in my family—a whore and probably won’t be the last. I’ve never hated my father more, though, than I do at this very minute.
Kellin growls. “I told you to stop talking about her. Don’t even say her name. You got that? This is between you and me.” An audible scuffle ensues.
I swallow a gasp. Kellin’s trying to break through the zip ties.
