I open the door and look at Lili, standing there with her hands over her mouth and her eyes filled with tears.
“It’s over, Lili. This is the end. You’ll never speak to Juan Pablo again. And because of what happened today, your father has moved up the wedding. You’re marrying Quinn in a week. I’m sorry.”
There’s nothing left to say, so I pull her into my arms and hold her tight as she sobs.
I’m not sure whose heart is more broken, hers or mine.
14
Spider
I don’t sleep at all that night. Hypervigilant, I prowl the dark halls of the house, checking and re-checking rooms I’ve already cleared a dozen times.
Gianni and Leo’s men are lurking around the grounds and patrolling the perimeters, but it gives me no peace of mind.
Every bit of that I might have had flew straight out the window when Caruso told me what the intruders said to Reyna. I knew it was one of his enemies who set it up—we’ve all got them.
But when the enemies are more interested in taking your daughter than killing you, that’s a whole different problem.
So here I am again for the second time this year, pacing hallways and gnashing my teeth over a female under my protection who’s a target for kidnapping.
Only this time, it’s not the target I’m worried about.
I should be. Lili’s going to be my bloody wife. She’s a lovely girl, and she’s going to make a lovely wife. But the moment Caruso said he believed the armed intruders were here for Lili, I could think of nothing else but the safety of her aunt.
Reyna.
Queen Devil Bitch of All Existence, who makes my blood boil and my dick hard and speaks to me with the kind of disrespect no man would dare to, because it would get him killed.
Reyna who hates me.
Reyna who challenges me.
Reyna who has the guts of a Viking and the body of a fertility goddess and the attitude of a feral cat.
I shouldn’t be worried about her. If anyone ever did kidnap that woman, he’d regret it within the hour. He’d throw her back through the front window with an apology note and speed away as fast as he could.
If she didn’t drive a dagger through his heart first.
She’s a witch! Demon spawn of the devil!
But she shot a man for me. She had my back—literally—and killed a man.
Why did she do that if she hates me so much? She could’ve simply let me get killed and dusted off her hands. Good riddance to a man she insults at every opportunity and only ever calls by his last name.
And lies to like it’s her favorite hobby.
A man who made her look like she wanted to puke when she saw him without his shirt.
But why was she so concerned about my wound? Why would she care if it got infected? Why would she offer to stitch me up?
Why would she insist on stitching me up, then take such care as she did, biting her lip in concentration?
And why, oh fucking why, can’t I stop thinking about her?
We don’t even like each other, for fuck’s sake!
No. That’s not true. I do actually like her. Despite her sharp edges that could cleanly shear off a limb, I like how smart she is. How quick-witted. How funny, though I’m usually the punchline of the joke. I like the way she lobs an insult like a tennis drive, then hits me again when I lob one back.
I like how protective she is of Lili. How tender she is with her. Like a mama bear with her cub.
It means she’s not all razor blades and barbed wire. Somewhere underneath all that armor she wears beats a soft heart.
A soft heart that learned how to hide from a cruel hand.
I meant what I said when I told her I’d like to kill her dead husband. I’d even be happy to exhume his rotten corpse and have a go at that.
I also meant what I said when I told her I never wanted to see her after the wedding. That was the God’s honest truth.
Because every second I spend in that woman’s company is a reminder of all the reasons I agreed to an arranged marriage in the first place.
Christ. I wish a few dozen more of those intruders would show up.
I’m going to need to shoot a lot more people before all this is over.
15
Rey
When I rise early in the morning and head to the kitchen to make breakfast for the men, I find Quinn already there, standing in the middle of the room like he’s been waiting in that spot for centuries.
Surprised, I stop short in the doorway and look at him.
His eyes are bloodshot. His hair’s a mess. He’s wearing the same shirt he had on yesterday, the one with the rip through the shoulder and bloodstains down the sleeve.
He looks strung out. Dangerously wired. As if he was up all night mainlining cocaine.
“Good morning,” I say cautiously.
His gaze drags over me like a rake over hot coals. His voice comes out rough. “You all right?”
“Yes. Why, did something happen while I was asleep?”
He shakes his head, then shoves a hand through his hair. He stares at me for a moment, then turns away abruptly and starts to pace back and forth in front of the island with his hands propped on his hips and his brows drawn down.
This is normally where I’d make a smart remark about his calm and cheery personality, but there’s something different about him today. His thunderclouds have a heavier aspect. He’s all charged nerves and crackling tension, and it makes me worried.
I take a few hesitant steps into the kitchen. “Quinn?”
He makes a sharp cutting motion with his hand and growls.
I put my hands up. “Okay.”
Ignoring him, I set the oven to preheat. Then I head to the fridge and start pulling things out. Next, I hit the pantry. I put everything on the counter by the stove, start a pot of coffee, and begin to chop veggies and prep for the meal.
Behind me, Quinn paces back and forth. Every so often, he huffs, sounding like a bull pawing the ground before it charges.
I fight the almost overpowering urge to turn around and give him a hug.
He drops heavily into a chair, exhales in a gust, then groans. The sound is low and full of misery.
When I turn to look at him, he’s got his elbows propped on the kitchen table. His eyes are closed and his head is gripped in his hands, his hair sticking through his fingers.
Without saying a word, I pour coffee into a big mug, add a teaspoon of sugar, and set the mug in front of him. Then I go back to cooking and ignore him again.
After a while, he says in a low voice, “How did you know I take my coffee black with sugar?”
Beating eggs in a mixing bowl, I smile to myself. “You seem like a man who likes a little sweetness, but doesn’t want anyone to know it.”
Grouchy as hell, he snaps, “Aye? Any other witty observations you’d like to share?”
“Drink your coffee. It’s too early to argue.”
For the next ten minutes, we don’t speak. With words, anyway. He sits and throws lightning bolts at my back, which I deflect with a calm that only seems to incense him more.
I can tell he’s spoiling for a fight, but I won’t give it to him.
Twice, he jolts up from the table and refills his mug from the coffeepot, only to return to the table, fling himself into a chair again, and recommence brooding.
After he lets out his third loud grumble in as many minutes, I’ve had enough.
I stop what I’m doing, cross to the table, pull up a chair beside him, and say quietly, “What is it? I’m worried about you.”