“You’ve got two days.”
It’s an hour later when I finally make it back to the estate, waving at the security guards posted outside of the gated entrance and driving my blacked-out Range Rover down the winding path that’s lined with perfectly manicured shrubs.
Running the ball of my tongue ring against the back of my lip, I park my car in the garage and walk toward the door, my leg muscles burning from how quickly I rush inside. The USB is searing a hole against my chest, and I have to physically stop myself from continually grabbing at it just to make sure it’s still there.
The door from the garage opens straight into the kitchen, and while I know I’m safe from prying eyes—nobody who lives here notices me until they need something—anxiety still creeps along my spine and wraps around my throat, urging me to move fast until I can get the drive to a safe spot.
Loud laughter rings from down the hall and my heart stutters against my chest, causing my footsteps to falter. It sounds like it’s coming from the dining room, and even though it makes no sense for me to change direction and head toward the noise, it’s what I do anyway.
I slip off my jacket and shoes, walking as light as possible, trying to ensure my footsteps aren’t heard on the hardwood floors, and when I hit the dining room off the front entrance, anger floods my system so strongly it immobilizes me.
He’s in the house.
In our lives for less than a week and already Brayden Walsh is in our fucking house.
My family is full of idiots. My heart slams against my ribs and my fingers curl into fists, nails cutting into my palms.
Ten, nine, eight…
The control slips back into place as I count down to one, and I turn, walking down the hall quickly, making a quick pit stop in the kitchen to grab a water.
It’s when I’m bent down in the fridge, my fingers grazing against the side of the bottle, that I hear him again.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
His voice skates over my skin like a thousand knives, and the way he uses sweetheart makes me want to scream.
I fucking hate that word.
“Ignoring me already?”
Groaning, I stand up straight and close the fridge door. “It’s Eveline, stalker.”
He smirks and it makes me want to punch him in the face. “Eveline.”
“What do you want?” I ask, trying to move around him. He steps to the side when I do so that I’m boxed in. Tension stretches around my shoulders.
“You’re quite the little creeper, peering around walls and into rooms,” he notes, tilting his head. “Didn’t want to say hi?”
I scoff. “I live here, genius. And I was trying to avoid you.”
“Why?” he presses.
“Because if I don’t, then I’m going to murder you.”
His eyes flash, and his grin grows.
Does he think I’m joking?
He steps into me and I lose my breath at how quickly the air changes.
Whether I want to admit it or not, physically, this man affects me more than anyone else ever has, and that causes panic to percolate through every nerve, because the last thing I need is someone I don’t trust coming around and making me feel out of control.
I throw my hands up and press them against his chest. “You’re in my bubble.”
He lifts a brow. “Your bubble?”
Waving my hand between us, I attempt to push him back. “This is my bubble, dog. And you’re in it.”
“Maybe I like your bubble.” He leans into me, my palms the only thing separating his body from brushing against mine. “It’s cozy. Tight.”
“Great,” I say dryly. “Can you move now?”
He hums and presses into me again, this time pushing until my back is flush against the fridge. When he lifts his hand, my fingers dig into his shirt, my heart pounding in my ears, and he brushes a strand of hair from my forehead before cupping my jaw.
His green eyes flicker from my face down to my lips.
Heat explodes in my stomach.
“Let go of me,” I manage to rasp.
“No.”
“It wasn’t a question,” I hiss. “And I want you to leave my family alone. I’m not fucking kidding.”
He pushes his hips against me and bends down, his breath ghosting across my neck, causing shivers to trickle down my spine.
“I’m not quite sure who you think I am,” he whispers. “But clearly you’ve mistaken me for someone who gives a fuck about what you want.”
I grit my teeth, anger bleeding into my vision until it darkens around the edges.
“So if I want to eat dinner in your home,” he continues. “If I want to do business with your dad… if I want to fuck your naive older sister, then that’s what I’ll do.”
My chest tightens, nostrils flaring as I turn my face to the side, trying to rein in my temper. The one time I don’t have my gun.
“You got me, pretty girl?”
Letting out a low laugh, I nod my head, dipping the tip of my tongue out and running it along the edge of my bottom lip.
His eyes track the movement, the same way they did the night we met at the club.
I rise up on my tiptoes until our noses graze, the smell of cinnamon and pine swimming through my senses. “Go fuck yourself.”
Smiling, I shove his chest as forcefully as I can. He doesn’t budge much, but it’s enough for me to spin out of his hold and slip underneath his arm, and I walk away as fast as possible, my heart slamming against my ribs with every step.
9
NICHOLAS
“Where are we?” I ask, looking around the parking lot.
I already know of course. We’re at The Yellow Brick, which is a strip club in the heart of Kinland, owned by none other than Farrell Westerly himself.
Liam, one of Farrell’s associates who’s been tasked with babysitting me, grins as he slicks back his greasy red strands in the rearview mirror of his car.
“Let’s not play games, okay rook?” he says, turning toward me and lighting the end of a cigarette. “We both know that you know where we are.”
My heart shoots into my throat. Is this a trap? Have I been made? “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
He frowns. “You expect me to believe you don’t know what a strip club is?”
Relief floods my system and my muscles relax. He’s just being a prick. I lean back in my car seat and smirk.
He purses his lips. “Must be nice to get in so quick with The Skip.”
I shrug, not bothering to reply. To be completely honest, I’m just as shocked as anyone else Farrell granted me access to his person that easily; that he allowed me into his home and to meet with him face to face. That he doesn’t seem to care if his “pride and joy” wants to fuck me six ways from Sunday and that—at least in everyone else’s eyes—I’m entertaining the thought.
And that tells me one of two things. Either Farrell Westerly is the dumbest motherfucker to ever run an organized crime ring, or he’s gotten overly confident and sloppy.
Either way, it begs the question of how the hell he built such an empire in such a short amount of time if these are the types of decisions he makes.
Liam grunts before opening his car door and slamming it behind him, throwing his half-burned cigarette on the ground. I follow suit, the cool nighttime air whipping across my face when I leave the vehicle and walk toward the front door. The loose gravel of the club’s parking lot crunches beneath my shoes as we make our way to the front entrance, and I sink into my role as Brayden, my hand running along the chain on my neck, pulling it to rest on top of my shirt instead of underneath it. The minuscule wire inside wouldn’t capture much video if it was hidden beneath fabric.