“The front,” Veyn answers the unspoken question. “Duval.”
My heart sinks even as an icy surge rises up my throat. My gaze darts from Veyn to Marcus, but he is already moving with long strides to his closet. He returns in less than a minute in trousers and a button down he’s dragging over his shoulders. His expression is one of determination when his eyes meet mine.
“Stay with her. Do not leave her side until I get rid of them.”
Veyn only inclines his head.
“Wait. You can’t go down alone,” I start, trying to wiggle myself free of the downy yards of fabric.
Marcus ignores my attempts, powerful body moving to the door with a sharp, “Do not leave this room.” From over his shoulder.
I open my mouth to tell him not to leave, but he’s gone and I’m left to realize if he gets hurt, it will be my fault.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Marcus
Myhandsaresteadysmoothing the hem of my top down the waistband of my trousers. My nerves are calm.
Deep down, I’m aware that I should be hesitant. I’m about to come face to face with the man responsible for the death of my children and my brother. There will be no room for error once I open those doors.
It should worry me.
I should request backup from the crew I sent off after my boys were murdered. But it’s not fear I feel as I hit the final step and round to face the entrance. It’s not even curiosity. I study the barricade with a mixture of resignation and annoyance. A situation that requires attention I don’t have time for; I may not have been there when Catherine went into labor, but I have a strong sense that Lenora is or will be very soon. I need to find a doctor. I need to figure out what to do next. I don’t have time for whatever nonsense has Julen Duval darkening my doorstep.
Still, I stalk the distance and wrench the door wide without pause.
Julen Duval is a man who has lived well all his life. Pampered and indulged. Given the world on a silver platter that he has carelessly dented. In the striped light of early light filtered through heavy clouds, he stands eye level with eyes the dark brown of constipated shit and a hairline trying desperately to escape his pudgy face. Pockmarks cut into swollen cheeks, competing against the age spots blotching a complexion a shade south of sour milk.
But no gun.
I think a deep part of me had expected him to be cocked and ready to blow my brains out. But his hands are empty inside his leather gloves.
“Usher,” he grinds out from between teeth too white and straight to be real.
“Duval, are you lost?” I counter.
“I’m looking for my nephews,” he states with a sureness that has me lifting my eyebrows.
“The police mentioned that they were missing,” I say, not with triumph or arrogance. A matter of fact that says nothing. “Are you going door-to-door searching for them? That’s nice of you.”
His response is a slow uncurling of white breath coiling from his nostrils.
“Let’s cut the bullshit. I know you have them.”
“I don’t, but even if I knew where they were, why would I give them back after you had them kill my sons?”
Julen is silent long enough that we both know I’m lying. Only difference is, he can’t prove it.
“Did you kill my brother?” he asks instead.
“I didn’t,” I answer without missing a beat.
His shit-brown eyes narrow. “Don’t fuck with me, Usher. You have no one left, except your pretty, little niece. It would be a shame—”
“Careful,” I cut him off smoothly. “You are at my home, and you are alone. It would be unwise to threaten me.”
“Who says I’m alone?” he taunts. “I could have this place surrounded by men waiting for my orders to charge in and burn this shithole to the ground—”
