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Cecilia Shea never took her husband’s last name. She kept her maiden name and passed it on to their only child—Briar.
Briar is Warren Marshall’s daughter.
Daughter of the man who murdered my mother.
My heart has never pounded so hard in my life. Any second now, it’ll burst.
Both of them turn as I slowly exit my car.
This could be a mistake. Perhaps I should be peeling out of the driveway and speeding as far away from this monster as I can get. But I won’t leave Briar alone with him.
Warren hasn’t tracked me down since I took his ear. But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t tried.
His brows descend low over his beady eyes. The same shade of blue as Briar’s, but without the sunlight hers hold. His are the hard, dangerous blue of ice. He steps between me and my muse.
His second mistake.
“How did you find out where I live?” Briar demands.
“Your mother told me.” He points at the house without diverting his gaze from me. “Briar, get inside.”
She folds her arms defiantly across her chest. “I’m not going anywhere. I’d like you to leave, actually.”
“This man is dangerous.” Fire blazes in Warren’s eyes. “You need to get away from him now.”
Her gaze darts between us. She doesn’t deny that I’m dangerous. That would be pointless. “How the hell do you know Saint?”
Warren grabs Briar’s shoulder in an attempt to guide her into the house.
“Take your hands off her.”
He balks at my order just long enough for Briar to jerk out of his grasp. “Both of you, inside,” she barks. We both start to object until she points at the door and shouts, “Now!”
The last place Warren Marshall and I should be is alone together in the privacy of Briar’s home. I’ll paint her walls crimson with his blood if I must.
Reluctantly, I follow them inside. I never thought I’d see this monster again, and now here he is.
My future father-in-law.
The monster who killed my mother is also my muse’s deadbeat father. Now, he’s in her house. He’ll be at our wedding. If he survives to see that day.
One word from Briar and I’ll make sure Warren Marshall never takes another breath.
Inside, tension permeates through every square foot of Briar’s home. My muse examines us with hands on her hips and lowered brows. “What the hell is the proper etiquette in this situation? Am I supposed to offer you a seat and some tea? Coffee?”
“He won’t be staying,” I tell her, just as Warren grumbles, “Coffee.”
“Sit,” Briar orders. Warren takes a seat at one end of her too-short, rickety table and I take a seat at the other. Briar rolls her eyes before brewing coffee and settling into the chair between us.
“Well.” I examine Warren with the disdain of an introvert who’s received unexpected company. “You’ve aged horribly.”
“How the hell do you know each other?” Briar demands.
Warren glares at me wordlessly. He doesn’t want his daughter to know his true nature. Maybe he also wants to spare her from knowing mine.
He’s far too late for that.
I reach for one of Briar’s fists on the table, uncurling it to slide my fingers through hers. Warren’s jaw ticks. “Remember when I told you about the man whose ear I removed?”
