My hand is around Tristan’s throat before he even takes his next breath. But the man just stands there, face turning red, grinning.
“There’s the soft spot,” he chokes out.
“There is no soft spot,” I grow. “Other than your organs. Which will be smeared across the pavement if you say another word about Nik.”
Someone, even with significantly less oxygen, Tristan is able to widen his grin.
“Let up, brother,” Baron says to me. “He’s not worth it.”
My grip stays, long enough that his brothers both pull guns as well. Meanwhile, Mav still has his knife out.
“Ransome.” Baron’s voice comes through the white heat behind my grip. He places a hand on my shoulder and it reels me in, my hand loosening until Tristan is able to break away.
He’s right, though. It isn’t worth it.
We get back in our cars and drive away from Tristan and his guys. As I get out of the Corvette and into my own car, Maverick doesn’t say a word.
I drive in silence back into the city.
I should have never come out here. Any rush of adrenaline to take the edge off has officially done the opposite. Before, I was frustrated and pissed. Now I’m just pissed. It may sound like an improvement, but it really isn’t.
A streetlight turns red and I wait, pulling my phone out. Amara’s location is accessible from my phone. I click on it.
My jaw locks when I see she’s not at the penthouse. She’s not at her apartment either.
She’s at a bar.
My hand tightens on the steering wheel, my knuckles turning white.
I should go after her. I should grab her by the hair and drag her back to the penthouse, put her in her place in more ways than one. I should make good on that benefits clause. The number of times I have been disrespected today is motivation enough to do just that.
But I don’t.
I should. I want to. There is nothing I’d rather do than show her just how out of place she’s been recently.
But I’m not going to. At least not in the form of publicly dragging her out of a cocktail lounge.
Instead, I got home. Not to the estate, though.
I go to the penthouse. Then I pour myself two fingers of my strongest bourbon.
And I wait.
34
AMARA
“Get me out of here, Ivan,” I say as soon as I close the back door of the car.
He pulls out of the parking lot and onto the crowded street. “That’s the plan,” he answers with little to no emotion, as usual.
“But don’t go to the penthouse,” I add. “I have no desire to go there.”
“That’s not part of the plan.” He shrugs. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. But also, don’t go there.”
“Again, I’m sorry, Miss Parker. But that is where I am paid to go.”
