Page 2 of A Vicious Love

I watched the hard line of his profile while he spoke. Dark stubble covered his jaw, and the tattoos along his neck disappeared beneath the crisp black collar of his shirt. Everything about Jamison looked hostile, even dressed for charity.

Eventually, he lowered the phone.

“Hi, Jamjam.” I smiled up at him.

Jamison was extremely scary, which was precisely why I’d given him the nickname. It certainly wasn’t because it suited him. I’d decided years ago that Jamjam made him more approachable.

It hadn’t worked, but I remained committed.

His eyes moved over me, and I watched him force something down. Rage, and impatience. I never really knew with Jamison.

I held out my hand.

“Hand, please.”

His gaze dropped to my palm.

I kept it there.

I’d started doing this when I was eighteen and he was already frightening enough to make grown men step backward. Sometimes he arrived at events with blood on his knuckles. Somewhere along the way, I’d decided that if people saw us touching, maybe they would remember he was human.

That, and these events terrified me.

“Hand, please, Jamjam,” I repeated softly.

His jaw flexed, and for one horrible second, I thought he might refuse in front of everyone.

Then his hand dropped into mine.

Tattooed fingers closed around my smaller ones without any gentleness, and he started walking before I was ready. I stumbled half a step before catching up, his grip tightening instinctively even though his pace never changed.

Jamison didn’t adjust for anyone.

Apparently, that included me.

I lifted my free hand and smiled at the staff as he practically dragged me toward the ballroom.

The doors opened, and hundreds of faces turned.

The chairwoman paused mid-speech before recovering with a smile too bright to be real and continuing her remarks about medical funding for children’s recovery wards. Someone near the back whispered.

Jamison didn’t seem to notice.

Our table was near the front because Crows were always seated near the front. They owned too much and frightened too many people to be placed anywhere else. Jamison’s brothers were already waiting for us. Marcel sat with his wife, Emmie, tucked beside him, while Harrison occupied the other side of the table with a dark-haired woman in red. His mouth tilted the second he saw us approaching.

He’d been waiting for this disaster to entertain him.

Emmie smiled at me as we reached the table.

Jamison dropped my hand. My fingers stayed suspended between us for half a second before I remembered to lower them.

“Brother.” Marcel glanced at his watch. “You’re twenty-eight minutes late.”

Jamison pulled out his own chair and sat. “I had business.”

“You always do.”

“Then stop scheduling charity dinners when you know.”