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Bree quickly gets to her feet, moving to stand in front of him to cut him off. “Fine. If I want to bid on her, how do I go about it? And how do I know she will be kept safe until the auction?”
He looks startled that Bree would even say such a thing. “Now I know she’s so highly sought after, it’s in my best interest to ensure she’s protected until the event. But, if I’m being completely transparent, there’s another person who has taken a great shine to her, and he will pull out all the stops toacquire her. He’s one of the few members of Club Crimson with an unlimited budget, and usually, when he sees something he wants, he gets it.”
Bree lets out a short, humourless laugh. “That’s funny because I get what I want too. So tell me… How do I take part in the auction?”
An evil smirk crosses the asshole’s face. “Well, the thing is, it’s a member-only auction, and you’ve made it very clear that you don’t approve of my business ventures. So I’m fairly certain you’re not a member.”
Bree practically growls at him, she’s so angry. “You don’t want to make an enemy of me.”
“And you don’t want The Aristocracy as an enemy. I suggest you kill Whitlock quickly and take the win,” he replies, though the way he says it is somewhat confusing. There’s something he’s not saying, and I can feel my brow furrowing the same way Bree’s is.
“Ethan,” Bree shouts loudly as she opens the door to the room. As soon as he appears, Bree gestures with her hands. “See that he gets home safely, please.”
The Sheriff turns to Bree, a smug look on his face. “It’s been a pleasure.” Just before he’s about to leave the room, he turns to face Bree again. “I’d very much like to see proof when you’ve finished Whitlock. It’s in our best interests to know when he’s dead.”
My ears perk up at the way he says that, and there’s a flicker in Bree’s eyes that suggests maybe she heard it too. “You’ve made it perfectly clear we are not helping each other, so you will just have to take my word for it when I tell you he’s dead.”
The Sheriff glares at Bree, shifting from one foot to the other, like he’s nervous all of a sudden. “I’d prefer proof.”
“And I’d prefer admission to the auction, but it would seem neither of us is getting what we want today,” Bree snaps,motioning for Ethan to take him. “You can escort him out now, Ethan.”
Her statement leaves no room for discussion, and though it looks like The Sheriff wants to argue, Ethan pulls him away before he gets the chance.
As soon as they’re sure the coast is clear, my brothers and Shane open the door and head into the room to Bree.
The meeting replays in my head, and I try to ignore the fucking awful parts about Teigan, as I work through the bullshit. There were definitely things he was implying without saying, and it’s driving me crazy the way he was talking in riddles.
One thing is for certain, he wanted Whitlock dead, which means Mortimer no longer has a bargaining chip…or does he?
As my brain tries to catch up, I slam the door open to the corridor and stride towards the cell where we’re keeping Whitlock in. It doesn’t take long for me to find it, and I use my fingerprint to open the security door.
I can hear footsteps running behind me, and I know everyone will have caught up with me shortly, so I slam the door closed behind me to buy a little time.
Mortimer is lying on the little cot that is pushed against the wall in the small cell. His head tilts up quickly, and when he catches the no doubt frantic look about me, he sits bolt upright. His grey hair has grown a little longer, curling a little at the edges, and his face is covered with a patchy beard, since he’s been unable to shave whilst he’s been with us.
His normally put together appearance has gone. His trousers are crumpled, and his shirt is ripped. They’re both dirty and covered in blood. I’m sure Bree would have offered him a clean change of clothes, but it appears he’s declined.
Although we’re feeding him and giving him water regularly—more than the pervert deserves—he looks pale and gaunt. Thenagain, despite us not being terrible kidnappers, we’re not a fucking hotel.
We’ve not exactly made his stay comfortable, and he’s been part of more than one aggressive interrogation. I’m actually surprised he looks as well as he does.
“What is it?” he asks, his eyes flicking around the room before landing on the small window in the door.
On the other side of the door, I can see everyone has reached me, and they’re all shouting at the same time. Thankfully, the cell is soundproof, so I can’t hear any of their warnings or instructions. I know it will only be a few seconds before they use their thumbprint to get in, but I don’t care.
Quickly, I grab the flip knife out of my pocket and expose the blade. As the door opens, I grab Whitlock by his shoulder, pulling him to his feet as I press the blade against his throat.
“Fuck, Evan. No! What the hell are you doing?” Liam shouts.
I can hear the others shouting too, but there are too many noises all at the same time to work out who is saying what.
“Shut the fuck up, everyone,” I shout loudly, keeping the blade pressed against Whitlock’s throat.
“You can’t kill me,” Mortimer mutters, and a humourless snort escapes me.
“That’s the thing… We can kill you, as you’re worthless to us now. We’ve just had our meeting with The Sheriff, and he made it very fucking clear that you are of no value to The Aristocracy. In fact, he actually asked to see proof of your dead body. So you have no bargaining chip. You are useless to us now, so tell me, why should we bother keeping you alive?” I growl, the tip of the blade pressing into his flesh until a small amount of crimson pools beneath.
“What? He wouldn’t say that,” Whitlock stutters.
