“Oh.” Her shoulders slump.
Nobody has the right to make her feel bad. The enthusiasm she brought to the gardenwork vanishes. My grip on the windowsill hardens.
“I assume that means you know who I am,” Roger says.
“Yeah. And I guess you’re here to tell me I don’t deserve to live in my own home?”
Roger folds his arms. Looks her up and down, causing bloodlust to surge through me. I clench my jaw so hard my teeth feel like they might break.
“I tried to explain to your mother that this is a good thing. Many people would jump at the check we’re offering.”
“I’m not one of them,” she says.
“Be reasonable, Rose.”
Rose. A fitting name. I want to take her but I might get the thorns instead. Worse, she might get them too. If the Bratva find out I’m alive and discover a woman has finally punctured my ice-cold shield …
I can’t even think about it. I’d kill any man who tried to touch her.
“Please don’t talk to me like we’re friends,” she snaps with admirable sassiness. “All I want is to make this house a home again. I’ve been through a lot lately.”
“My condolences. But I must warn you, if you insist on stubbornly holding onto this property, wewillthrow the fullweight of our substantial and, frankly, terrifying legal team at you.”
“Are we done?”
Roger half-turns.
Go back to your fucking car.
But then he turns back.
Dammit.
“No, we’re not,” he snaps. “You silly girl. Why can’t you be reasonable …”
I don’t hear what he says next. I’m stomping through my house. A voice in me roars to stop. But there’s a louder voice. Fiercer.
Protect her at all costs.
I pull the front door open so hard the hinges whine.
They face me in shock. Wide-eyed and beautiful, Rose bites her lip, probably wondering who the stranger emerging from the seemingly abandoned house is.
It’s rundown and broken on the outside. Modern and comfortable on the inside.
I walk quickly across the yard. My shadow falls across Roger, engulfs him. He swallows as he cranes his neck to look up at me. As he takes in my height and my width and the Bratva tattoos covering my arms and hands.
“You’re done here,” I growl.
“I—I …”
My hand twitches. The fact he hasn’t immediately turned and fled is a big mistake on his part.
“Last chance,” I grunt.
He opens his mouth. Closes it. Then finally sees sense and flees to his car. I walk into the road and stare at him as he drives away.
It’s broad daylight and I’m on the run. The neighbors could see me. Maybe even record the confrontation like people do these days. And worse, post it online.
