Page 107 of Ruthless Enforcer

“Uncle James is a traditionalist. He might prefer the pinot.”

He glances at me. “Are you trying to tell me you’re nervous, Duchess?”

“About you and my uncle in the same room?” I arch a brow. “I’m terrified. You both have massive egos, are lethal in your own ways, and have an infuriating habit of speaking in ultimatums.”

“I don't speak in ultimatums,” Gabriel replies, flicking the blinker as we round the final bend toward the manor’s wrought-iron gates. “I speak in realities. There’s a difference.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

He reaches across the center console, taking my left hand in his. His thumb glides over my wedding ring, warm and steadying. “For the record, if he decides to shoot me on the front porch, you inherit my share of the family fortune.”

“Good to know,” I say, squeezing his fingers. “I’ll make sure your funeral has an open bar.”

The gates swing open automatically, and Gabriel eases the SUV up the wide circular drive. The Whitlock manor looms before us—three stories of cut river rock, heavy timber beams, and amber light glowing behind multipaned glass.

We step out into the crisp mountain air. Gabriel comes around the hood, taking my hand naturally, his long stride matching mine as we climb the stone steps.

Before I can reach for the brass ring, the heavy oak front door opens.

Benson stands in the entryway, straight-backed and immaculate in his dark suit. He’s managed the Whitlock household since before I was born, a man whose unflappable dignity has survived decades of political galas, ranch emergencies, and family scandals.

“Welcome home, Miss Clara,” Benson says, inclining his head.

His sharp gaze flickers to Gabriel, drops to our clasped hands, and catalogs our rings gleaming in the foyer light. Not a single muscle in Benson’s face twitches. “And congratulations on your marriage, ma’am.”

“Thank you, Benson.” I smile. I can hear when he’s placating and when he means something genuinely, and this is the latter. “Is my uncle in the study?”

“He is.”

“What’s the weather like in there?”

“Stormy, Miss Clara,” Benson replies without missing a beat. “Gale-force winds, with a distinct chance of hail.”

Gabriel lets out an amused snort beside me. “I should’ve brought an umbrella, huh?”

Benson offers a subtle, appraising nod toward Gabriel, taking our coats with practiced efficiency before gesturing toward the north wing. “He is expecting you both.”

We walk down the familiar mahogany-paneled hallway, the Persian runners muffling our footsteps. At the end of the hall, the study door stands slightly ajar.

Gabriel reaches out, pushes the oak door open with two fingers, and lets me precede him into the room.

My uncle is sitting in the oversized leather wingback chair beside the roaring slate hearth.

He looks every inch the sovereign of the Montana cattle empire: silver hair cut with razor precision, a dark-charcoal cashmere sweater over an open-collared white dress shirt, and wool trousers pressed to perfection. His jaw is square, weathered by decades under the high-altitude sun, and his steel-gray eyes carry the terrifying weight of a man accustomed to commanding thousands of acres without ever raising his voice.

Resting horizontally across his knees is an antique double-barreled shotgun.

It’s a James Purdey & Sons 12-gauge side-by-side, British walnut stock glowing like polished amber, the sidelocks covered in intricate rose-and-scroll engraving. His weathered hands rest lightly on the stock and fore-end, relaxed and still.

It isn't pointed at anyone. It’s an heirloom. A statement of boundary.

James doesn't stand. His eyes sweep from me to Gabriel, noting the scrape on Gabriel’s temple, the quiet, balanced way Gabriel moves into the room, and the way he holds my hand.

“Uncle James,” I say, stepping slightly forward while keeping my hand anchored in Gabriel’s. “This is Gabriel Reyes. My husband.”

James’s gaze remains locked on Gabriel. “Reyes.”

“Whitlock,” Gabriel replies, his voice completely level.