Low chuckles reach my ears when I open the door to our room.
Maxwell, who’s the CEO, sits on the leather sofa, a tumbler in his hand, and a smirk on his lips. He loosens his tie and shakes his head at whatever’s being said.
Across from him, in classic reformed playboy dishevelment, is my partner-in-crime growing up, Rex, who’s number three in the Anderson sibling pecking order: Maxwell, Ryland, Rex, Ethan, myself, then our half sisters Grace and Taylor.
They stand when I enter—our etiquette classes growing up clearly paid off.
“Oh, look what the cat dragged in. Ditching work, little miss E?” Rex snickers.
I narrow my eyes. “Look who’s talking,Cassius.”
Rex scowls. He hates his middle name. Our parents alphabetized ours—Maxwell Angus, Lana Elise, all the way down the line. We’re the alphabet siblings.
“At least I actually get work done,” I quip and launch myself into his open arms, immediately feeling more settled.
“It’s all about working smart, not hard.”
I snort. Classic Rex.
“Everything okay?” Maxwell asks, clearly concerned. “Not like you to stop by midday.”
The man misses nothing.
“Just rattled. The café I was at this morning got burned to a crisp. The news said something about The Association. Then there’s this.” Releasing a sigh, I hand him the packet. “It might be nothing, but still…”
My brothers frown as they look over the papers.
The temperature of the room drops ten degrees. A muscle pulses in Rex’s jaw, and Maxwell’s gaze hardens. They stare at each other.
Click.
Click.
I whirl around, my mouth parting when I see the maddening devil step out of the bathroom. His fingers twirl his lighter, clicking it on and off.
Driving me crazy.
The man never smokes, but he makes his presence known by clicking that thing. I bet it’s a coping mechanism for whatever ailment infects his twisted mind.
Elias Kent, with his dark, formidable looks and towering frame, sucks the oxygen and light out of every room, all without saying a word. His startling green eyes snare mine as he advances toward us, his strides slow and measured.
Danger and menace radiate from him.
His stony gaze sweeps down my body, like he’s coldly assessing my value.
But then, for a split second, something shifts.
There’s a flicker of heat in his eyes.
I hiccup, my skin warming. The slow, sensual drag feels like a caress.
I’m going nuts. I hardly know the man.
“The Association, you say?” His voice comes out in its usual gravelly whisper.
Grayish daylight from the windows cuts his face in harsh shadows. Were it not for that menacing scar spanning his left cheek down to his jaw, he’d be handsome—beautiful, even.
He reminds me of a panther—sleek and elegant, but one hundred percent predator.
