Page 277 of A Vicious Love

Her gaze dropped from my throat to the black leather crossing my chest, then lower, over the T-shirt stretched against me, then down my arms where the ink disappeared beneath the sleeves. She blinked, caught herself, and looked very seriously toward the shooting traps, as if orange clay discs had become fascinating on a spiritual level.

My mood improved.

Then I saw the other women looking.

A cousin in green. One of the married sisters. Two wives near the lemonade table. Celeste, with her eyes moving over the holster, my chest, the guns, the exposed ink, before she looked away with careful calculation.

Wrong move.

I reached for Sienna.

She made a tiny sound when my arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her back against my side. Her hand came to my forearm by instinct, fingers curling over ink and muscle, and the response pleased me far more than public behavior should have allowed.

I looked at Celeste over the top of Sienna’s head.

Her eyes lowered.

Sienna glanced up at me. “What are you doing?”

“Standing.”

She stared at me for one second, then realized I had no intention of answering honestly. That suspicious little look appeared, the one she had developed over watching me lie with a straight face whenever I was being possessive.

“You’re being strange again.”

“I have been excellent all day.”

She pressed her lips together, trying not to smile.

I kept my hand on her waist like a civilized monster and watched the clay shooting setup begin.

The west field had been arranged with obscene professionalism. A row of shooting stands. Staff in green jackets. Gun cases on felt-lined tables. Ear protection laid out in neat rows. Cold drinks beneath a canvas pavilion.

White markers in the grass. A neat shooting line

I had no interest in shooting clay.

Clay lacked debt records.

Still, the Bellemeres treated the activity with reverence.

Sienna stayed still.

I felt it through her body before I saw it on her face.

“You hate this,” I said.

She looked ahead. “I’m terrible at it.”

“She hates it,” Adrian said, appearing on her other side.

Sienna gave him a look. “Adrian.”

He shrugged. “You do.”

I glanced toward her father. He had begun speaking to Julian and avoiding my eyes, which proved the man had survival instincts after all.

Sienna exhaled. “It’s fine.”