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“She’s strung tight,” Wells said. “Even with Casanova over there.”
I smirked. “I got her here, didn’t I?”
Wells shrugged. “Yeah, but Maeme made her stay. You had nothing to do with that. Losing your touch with old age. I might have to step up and take your place as Prince Charming.”
Barrett chuckled. “You might have the looks, kid, but you don’t have the charm. They see your cocky ass coming a mile away. King here has the talent to hide it.”
The door opened, and Storm came inside, followed by Thatcher. They were laughing about something—well, Storm was, and Thatcher had a small tug on his lips, which was as close to amused as he got. Storm’s gaze met mine, and he grinned bigger.
“There’s Mr. Wonderful,” he said.
I raised my eyebrows. “Glad you finally realized it,” I replied.
He laughed and shook his head. “Not me. I know you’re an asshole, but it seems our hurt little sparrow is blinded by that pretty-boy face of yours.”
I straightened in my seat and studied him. “What are you talking about?”
He glanced over at Thatcher, who was headed to the bar, not at all interested in the conversation. He sank down on the seat to my right and sighed. “Well, Maeme sent me back to the cottage with an apple pie she had made for Rumor—that’s what we are supposed to call her, right?”
I nodded and narrowed my eyes, wanting him to finish whatever he was going to say.
“She wouldn’t open the door for me. Talked to me through the damn door. Asked where you were in fact. Told me to leave or she would call you. If we hadn’t been called here, I might have sat down on that rocking chair and let her call you. That would have been a fun little turn of events.”
“Don’t fuck around with her. She’s been abused, and she’s scared shitless.”
I glared at him. He knew this. We all did. Why didn’t he take it more seriously? She needed to be handled delicately.
“And you don’t fuck around with her either—even if she wants you to,” he replied, wagging his eyebrows at me.
“I don’t plan on it. She might be married to a goddamn narcissistic bastard, but she’s still married. I don’t do drama and baggage.”
“She’ll be a widow in about a week,” Thatcher said, leaning back against the edge of the desk and crossing his ankles.
I gave him a warning look. He would never take the time to even attempt to gain her trust. But I didn’t like the insinuation. That got a deep chuckle out of him.
“We have real shit to discuss. We aren’t here to talk about pussy,” Roland said just as the door opened, and Wilder’s father and Roland’s older brother, Monte, walked inside.
Monte held up some papers in his hands. “Got what we needed. His accounts have been drained, and all his money is sitting in one of our accounts in Switzerland. He’ll find out soon enough.”
“Guess we will be torturing and killing sooner rather than later,” Thatcher drawled, looking entirely too pleased.
“Bloodthirsty, brother? You just shot the man two days ago,” I pointed out, not that I wasn’t ready to hear Churchill beg for his life and wail in agony.
Thatcher cut his gaze to mine. “Don’t act like you aren’t ready for her to be a widow.”
I stood up. “I want her free of that piece of shit, and I want him to pay. But that’s it.”
He smirked. “Sure. That’s all you want.”
I wasn’t going to argue. He was trying to bait me. I knew him too well. Unlike the younger guys, who always fell for his shit and let him get them worked up, I was unphased. Instead, I just chuckled and shook my head before going to fill up my glass. Our meeting had just been extended.
“Boss made it clear—no one fucks her,” Monte said, his eyes leveled on me.
Fine. I hadn’t planned on it.
• eleven •
“I didn’t like men. I wanted to stay clear of them.”
