Am I about to get married wearing the sweatshirt of one of the men I love, who was brutally murdered an hour ago?
And here I thought today couldn’t get any more fucked up.
Maybe I should stop jinxing myself with those kinds of thoughts.
When he doesn’t step back, and his glare deepens, I realize he’s waiting for me to respond, and all I manage is a small nod.
It’s not until he steps out of my space that I take a deep breath and push my shoulders back.
I have no idea what’s waiting for me in that room, and even less idea how many people are inside, but the taser hiding beneath my sleeve brings a certain sense of calm to my body.
Jeffrey nods at the guard, and he steps forward to open the door for us.
We both step inside, but my brows dip when I notice the chair at the other end of the table is turned toward the wall rather than at us.
God, I hope whatever asshole I’m being married off to doesn’t think he’s some kind of supervillain.
The door closes behind us, and I take a tentative step forward, putting the table between Granddad and me.
The chair spins slowly, and it takes long seconds for my mind to catch up with the scene in front of me.
Because the last thing I expect to see is Camilla with one hand on her baby bump and the other aiming a gun straight at my grandfather.
“Hey, girl,” Camilla says calmly, taking her eyes off Granddad for long enough to shoot me a wink. “Looks like I’m your new husband.”
A choked laugh tumbles free, because today really does keep throwing curveballs, and I’m starting to think this might be some kind of fever dream.
“Who the fuck are you?” Jeffrey growls as he reaches into his pocket for his phone.
Camilla smirks, her long brown hair wavy around her shoulders. “That won’t work in here.” She uses the gun to point to a small black box in the middle of the table. “Can’t have you calling for help while we’re having a little chat.”
I step further around the table, wanting to put as much distance between me and the door as I can, just in case whoever Jeffrey was planning to marry me off to is still on his way.
“And to answer your earlier question, I’m Camilla De Marco. My husband, Kovu, is just outside taking care of your men, but he’ll be in shortly.”
Blood drains from his face at the combination of names, and I can’t help but be amused by what’s playing out in front of me.
“Where Ronald? And the rest of my men?”
Camilla shrugs. “Dead, I assume.”
His eyes flick to me and then back to the woman with the gun.
There’s a poetic justice in this that I wish I could enjoy. The way he’s always underestimated women, always thinking we were nothing more than pawns for him to play with, is being challenged in the most spectacular fashion.
The door swings open, and a man I can only assume is Kovu steps inside. His arms are splattered with blood, and he wipes his knife against his cargo pants as he steps toward Camilla with feral love in his gaze.
“Are you having fun, Little Lamb?” He comes to a stop beside her, dropping a kiss to the top of her head, but he’s careful not to get any blood on her.
“You know I am. Did you scratch that itch?”
“Fuck yeah. You should have seen how this one guy bled when I cut off his—” He shoots a look at me and then back to Camilla. “I’ll tell you when we get home.”
As curious as I am to hear the rest of that story, it’s probably a good thing he stopped. My stomach hasn’t stopped churning since I woke up this morning, and graphic details about dismemberment probably won’t help matters.
“I can give you money,” Jeffrey blurts out.
Camilla’s laugh fills the room, followed closely by Kovu’s. “I have plenty of my own blood money, thank you very much. What I would like, however, is for you to apologize to my girl here.”
