Ice pulses in my veins, and my jaw drops. “What?”
His voice is low but holds absolute authority as he whispers, “You’ll let me go now, brother.”
I release him and take an involuntary step back.
I don’t know what outrages me more—their demands, or the assumption my sisters are only worth four million.
He nods gravely. “Apparently, dear old Dad left a debt with them, didn’t he?” He shakes his head from side to side. “Jesus.”
Of course he did. Anger rises in me, hot and fast, acid burning in my throat. Until Leith took his role, I tolerated my father. He was ruthless and cruel, and if not for the tempered love of our mother, we’d have been raised to be just like him.
But as I’ve come to know who he really is, what he’s really done… I’ve never known hatred like I do for my father.
“And he didn’t tell you about this.”
Leith snorts. He’s forgiven me, but I know I can’t lose my mind like that again.
“I’m not Dad, Tate.” Truer words were never spoken. “You know I would’ve told you everything if I knew it.”
We don’t lie to each other. We may rough each other up and give each other crap like no one else, but we all know we’d give our lives for the men of our Clan, and the only way for us to maintain the loyalty and trust necessary for such vows is with brutal honesty.
“Aye.”
“How long have they given you before you answer?”
“One week. End of the month.”
Fuck.
I run a hand through my hair, and my voice sounds as if it doesn’t even belong to me when I tell him, “I’ll handle this. Let me handle this.”
I have to do this, I know I do. Leith has to manage the Clan. Mac has a wife now, and a family of his own as well.
This is my duty. My responsibility. And I have the tools to do what I have to.
Fran knows things. She has connections and spies. I will find a way out of this. I will find a way to save my sisters, save my family.
We join the others, but my mind’s preoccupied with what he told me. Still, I breathe more easily when I take my seat beside Fran.
She’s still here. No one’s hurt her.
Hell, not only is she still here, she’s regaling my family with a tale about a customer in the bookstore they call “the biscuit bandit,” someone who nicks biscuits from the little shop and leaves a trail of crumbs in the books.
“Told my manager if she left a trail to a gingerbread house, I’d feed her to the damn witch myself.”
“Fran!” Islan says, snorting with laughter.
“What? She ruined a perfectly gorgeous copy of Brown’s poetry, and you know how I feel about such things.”
Islan sobers. “Aye. Fair point.”
The staff refills teacups, and I tug on Fran’s hand. We have to go.
“She’ll be staying with us for a few days, won’t she?” Islan asks. I texted her earlier this morning, and she hasn’t asked many more questions. My heart thrums in my chest.
Four million quid or one of the girls.
I’ll kill them. I’ll fucking kill them all.
