Page 101 of Brutal Heir

No. It wasn’t.

I’d been dealing with obnoxious bullshit shouted at me my whole damn life.

Control.

That was always the answer.

Respond, don’t react.

And yet, this was the third time I’d reacted first when there was even a hint of a threat against Sabrina.

I stared down at her. Without her platform shoes or heels, she seemed as tiny as a bird—a bird whose fragile wings I would break.

“I will not tolerate disrespect—from anyone.”

“Part of living in New York is ignoring unwanted catcalls from strange men.”

The idea of her enduring such treatment as she walked the filthy streets of that city, without a man to protect her, bothered me more than I would admit.

I cupped her chin. “Not if I’d been there with you.”

She rolled her eyes. “What would you do? Beat up every man who looked at me sideways or shouted an obscene comment?”

The wind whipped across the bare tarmac, lashing a curl that had escaped her ponytail across her cheek.

I reached out and tucked it behind her ear. “It’s adorable you think I’d have to beat every man. I’d just have to kill the first one. The rest would get the message.”

Her fingertips skimmed along the collar of her dress. “Is that what you were doing? Sending a message?”

“Exactly.”

She cleared her throat. “But it wasn’t a real threat, right? I mean, it’s not like you’d actually kill someone.”

I tucked her arm over my elbow as I escorted her toward the cars. “Of course not.”

Her body relaxed against mine, until I finished.

“I’m a busy man. I’d have someone kill them for me.”

She tried to pull away. “You shouldn’t tease about such things.”

I wrapped my arm around her back, securing her to my side. “Who said I was teasing?”

“You’re just trying to intimidate me. I know you’re not serious. If you made a habit of beating up every obnoxious photographer or reporter, you’d have a reputation for it.”

I didn’t respond as I handed her inside the back of the car.

After sliding across the heated leather seats, she continued. “You’re a wealthy man in the public eye. It would mean lots of bad press.”

But if she didn’t stop with the questions soon, I would have to shut her up. And there was only one way to stop a beautiful woman with plump, cherry lips from talking—by wrapping those lips around my cock.

I adjusted in my seat as my shaft stirred. With the privacy screen up, I rapped on the roof to signal for the motorcade to move forward.

“I control the press,” I responded brusquely, ending the conversation.

With a sigh, she rummaged through her purse.

Her phone screen glowed in the dim interior of the car as she scrolled through it. “Can you tell the driver to drop me off at the Piazza dell’Esquilino?”