In his old life, Scar’s attention had felt like danger, like footsteps closing in behind him.
Now it was more thrilling.
“You ready?” Adrian asked, breaking into his thoughts.
Gage faced forward. “Sure.”
White Ravens
Scar
Who the fuck is that handsy motherfucker? Scar frowned. And where is he taking Gage at eight o’clock at night?
Scar braced his hands on his thighs to keep from slamming his fist into the bulletproof window.
He wondered if it made him the worst kind of asshole that he was glad Gage couldn’t see what that guy looked like.
Whoever it was escorting Gage—which, where the hell was Roz?—he was the sort of handsome that a sweet Christian mother would love for her daughter to bring home.
He was tall, lean, with an athletic build as if he ran and swam for discipline rather than for health. His clothes and minimal jewelry were expensive without being showy, indicating he had money but didn’t feel the need to flaunt it.
The kind of man who never reached for or touched anything he didn’t think belonged to him.
And he was touching Gage.
Scar kept his eyes on the taillights of the Mercedes S-Class until it turned out of the underground garage.
His jaw worked, grinding in a way that meant his anger was about to become action.
He clenched and unclenched his fists, resisting the urge to test the durability of his window.
If Meridian noticed his fury flowing in the direction of violence, he didn’t acknowledge it. He simply waited and allowed him to look his fill.
When Gage was out of sight, Meridian told his driver. “Go.”
Scar was in a city he’d never visited, and he’d been too busy trying to swallow his temper to take in his new surroundings.
When they stopped at a red light, he finally glanced around.
“Where are you taking me?”
“To work,” Meridian said.
Already? Good.
Scar wouldn’t mind taking out his frustrations on a bad guy right now. His pulse steadied in an odd way. He liked the idea of having permission to be vicious…to kill.
He leaned his head back against the seat, exhaling through his nose.
Meridian sat beside him, too fucking quiet.
It irritated him more than it should. His silence felt like judgment. As if Meridian were watching his wayward emotions and deciding whether they were useful or pathetic.
He cut his eyes towards the notorious Black Raven—or so he’d been told that’s what he was.
His wardrobe designer, Elias, who he noticed loved to gossip, said Meridian was the greatest of them all.
He was gorgeous in an unsafe, sinful way. Ferocity coiled beneath impressive composure.
