Page 61 of Twisted Knight

I’d contemplated it.

I swirled the thought around on my tongue like a nice sip of scotch.

Now you just fucking cemented it.

Thanks for that. Not that I owe you anything.

“It’s probably best if you hang up the phone, Chadwick.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you’re threading a very thin needle. You don’t want to be on my bad side.” More than you already are, at least.

“Empty threats don’t scare me. I’ve lived in this town my whole life—do you actually think you can walk in here, throw your money around, and people will respect you over me? We protect what’s ours around here. It’s best you remember that.”

I’m aware. More than you’ll ever know, I’m fucking aware.

“You do, until you no longer can. Pretty sure that day is coming sooner than you think.”

I end the call before he can respond.

The funny thing about secrets in small towns is once they’re out, they not only ruin you, but everything else around you.

That’s what I’m banking on. The butterfly effect.

My cell rings again, his name on the screen, and I deny the call.

The fucker saw me hours ago at the office but didn’t have the guts to confront me face-to-face.

I expect nothing less from a man like him.

A man who clearly doesn’t deserve shit, let alone a woman like Rowan.

A woman like Rowan? Tight sweaters and defiance don’t mean you know shit about her, so what the fuck does that mean, Knight?

But I do, don’t I? I glance at the computer again. At Rowan’s life narrowed down to text on a screen. Emails, texts, social media accounts.

I should feel guilty for invading her privacy. I don’t. Knowing everything about each player in this game is a requirement. A necessity. Something I can and will use to my advantage if needed.

And I have no qualms about it. Especially after Chad’s call.

Time to kick this game plan into high gear. To adjust it as needed for maximum effect.

Chadwick Williams.

The fucker once took what was mine.

Now it’s time to do the same to him.

The end game at all costs, right?

EIGHTEEN

Rowan

There is a low hum that carries up from the floor below the catwalk we are standing on.

The machinery—row upon row that make up the Greatland production line—work in a series of synchronized sequences that Porter explains in excruciating detail.