“Yes, so if you ever do something to him?—”
“Settle,bhean chéile, I’m not going to do anything to him.”
She pushes both hands through her hair. “Forgive me if I take that with a grain of salt, coming from you.”
Silence fills the car, and I let her stew in anticipation of what I’m going to say. Maybe it’ll be half as stressful as it had been to hear those gunshots and—for a split second—think they had been meant for her. I’d been out of my car and halfway down the street before I realized I couldn’t say a damn thing without giving myself away.
I’d caught sight of the shooter slipping into a nondescript black SUV. As much as I wanted to stay with Catriona, make certain she was okay, my priority was finding the fucker whoput her in danger, and having his head for decoration. They managed to lose me in traffic, and I was contemplating calling in every marker owed to me to track them down when Baptiste called to inform me that Catriona was at the hospital. When I heard hospital, my heart stopped. For a moment, I thought she’d been hurt. And then I realized he was saying she was fine and he’d taken her to see the victim.
The oppressive silence follows us from the car to the estate. Every sound seems amplified in comparison: the slam of the car doors, her shoes against the marble floors, my heartbeat in my ears.
Time slows and speeds up simultaneously as every worst-case scenario plays on repeat in my head. The choices I’m about to make… they could have far-reaching consequences. But I can’t seem to make myself stop. While I trail her, the blood all over her sears itself into my brain. Needing her, wanting her, seems as inevitable as my next breath.
It had only taken nearly losing her for me to admit it to myself.
Catriona stops in the kitchen with the island between us like a shield. “I’m not telling you anything.” Her voice is resolute and stern. I wonder if she knows how beautiful she looks right now. Fierce. Determined. With fire warming her eyes and blood painting her skin. Hundreds of years ago, she would have been considered a queen.
I school my face. “If you’re going to keep secrets, then I want some concessions in our contract.” Electricity tingles under my skin as though lightning is about to strike. My body tenses, sensing danger.
She scoffs. “You’re renegotiating on me? Why does that not surprise me?” Her nails click on the granite countertops.Click, click, click.
“Considering new evidence that’s come to light, I think I have new bargaining power.”
“What evidence?” She crosses her arms over her chest when she notices me watching her nervous tic.
“You’re hiding something from me. I want to know what it is.” A bead of sweat rolls down my back, but I keep myself loose and indifferent. I hold up a hand when she starts to object. “Consider how far I’ll go to find out your secrets. These concessions could be nothing in comparison.”
“Toyou,” she mutters under her breath before straightening her spine. Fuck, but that shouldn’t do anything for me. Her stubbornness. Her courage in the face of a man like me. “Fine. What do you want? Bear in mind that if you think fucking is on the table, I’ll walk out of here.”
A taunting smile twists my lips to the side. “Is that where your mind goes, pet? Good to know. However, the only thing I want is for you to move into our room.”
“Move,” her voice starts at a higher pitch, before she catches herself. “Move into your room?”
“Ours.”
She barks out a laugh. “You know I’m hiding something from you, but you’re willing to let it go if I move into your room?”
“Our room.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I’ll use every weapon in my considerable arsenal to torture the information out of you.”
She shuffles back a step. “T-torture it out of me? You’re insane.”
“I’ve been tested. I’m legally mentally competent.”
“Right.”
“If I remember correctly,” I say, voice lowering several octaves. “You liked my particular brand of torture. But I have some new tricks that might interest you.”
Lips parted, she struggles for words before her tongue darts out to moisten the pink flesh. “You’re a sadistic bastard.”
“I never claimed otherwise. But if I’m a sadistic bastard, then you’re a filthy little liar.”
“That’s the definition of a power couple,” she taunts.
Silence falls again as we standoff over the kitchen island. Her glaring, me patient and watchful. Because I never play a hand when I can’t anticipate the outcome.
