He grins and shakes his head. “No, lassie. We know you painted us the villains.”
“What do you want from me?”
He leans back against a large box and lights up a smoke. I look around us, large “no smoking” signs plastered on every wall. It’s dangerous as fuck, in a warehouse of books.
“It’s fairly easy, darlin’, and you’re smart enough to know, aren’t you? We baited your mate because she was an easy target to the Clan.” He shrugs. “We took her sister as a little bit of insurance.” He smiles wickedly at me. “And you, we took to punish you for writing about our Clans.”
“I didn’t write about your Clans!”
These men are insane.
“Oh, but you did, didn’t you?”
“I wrote fictional books about fictional men. It’s your own pride that makes you think I wrote about you at all.”
He shakes his head. “You think we’re all that stupid, don’t you? We got ahold of your next book. Every woman and bloke in the UK knows these books by now, love, don’t they?”
I cringe.
He crouches down in front of me, takes a drag from his cigarette, and blows out the smoke in my face. I cough and sputter, and he chuckles.
“The next book painted our Captain as a fool,” he says. “Good job those didn’t go to publication. We’d have to punish you even more severely than we did.”
“Why do you think fictional books are about you?” I ask, trying to sidetrack him. He rises and jerks his head toward Islan.
“Because in the next book, the lass ends up with her secret lover, doesn’t she?”
My blood runs cold. Goddammit, she does.
Islan’s shocked eyes meet mine. “Fran,” she whispers. “You didn’t.”
“I just wanted to give you a fictional happily ever after,” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “Until you, no one even knew I was involved with Islan, did they?” He shakes his head. “Until you, my in with the Cowens was clear as fucking day. And you had to fuck it all up.”
Islan pales.
He shakes his head, tosses his cigarette to the floor, and stomps it under his foot.
“He’s here,” one of the men by the door says. I want to cry. I swallow the lump in my throat because I know exactly who’s here.
“Cowen?”
“Aye.”
Both hope and fear rise in me. Tate won’t just come barging in here… will he? Did he come alone? Will he be able to defend himself against this crew of guys who literally baited him?
Time ticks on, minute by minute. A bead of sweat trickles down my back. My mouth’s so dry I can’t swallow, and my eyes feel heavy from a night of no sleep.
Facing Tate, whatever violence that will ensue, is only the first stepping-stone. I have knowledge now that I’ve gleaned from my sources and brief observations here.
I decide to test my theory.
“Looks like Tate hasn’t come alone, has he?” I ask my captor. He turns and gives me a curious look, his body frozen.
“He has.”
“No,” I say, my tone casual. I want to throw him a curveball. “Leith’s here, too, isn’t he? Surely that wasn’t my mind playing tricks on me?”
