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“And I may agree with that wholeheartedly”—Elijah’s tone turned to ice, a rare occurrence for the laid-back former Texan—“but be that as it may, I’m still a duly sworn agent and I will be reporting this. Lyrica’s a friend, Natches, and this group has killed highly trained, skilled soldiers. She doesn’t have a hope of surviving if we don’t end this here.”
Natches moved suddenly from his chair, throwing it back with savage disregard for the wood as he stalked across the room, his expression enraged. When he swung around on Elijah, Graham’s brows lifted in surprise.
“That loyal to the agency, are you? Well, you can just pack the fuck up and get the hell out of town, boy,” Natches ordered the younger man. “Your services sure as hell won’t be needed once this is finished.”
Sharp and mocking, Elijah’s grunt of amusement had Graham watching the scene in interest rather than putting a stop to it.
“That’s it, Mackay,” Elijah stated silkily. “Throw your weight around and see where it gets you with me. Or with Doogan. He’s not Cranston, and I’m not Harley—remember that.”
The air seemed to grow thick with nearing violence now. Coming to his feet, Elijah sauntered to the back door, his expression harder, colder than Graham remembered ever seeing it.
“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Natches growled, the sound dangerous, a warning that had Graham and Dawg both tensing now at the impending Mackay eruption.
“Don’t I?” Elijah asked softly, opening the door as he stared back at the older man, his gaze filled with a flinty lack of mercy as it flicked over the youngest Mackay cousin. “Did you even wonder where he went when he disappeared after that beating you arranged for him?” He laughed, the sound sending a chill racing down Graham’s back. “Tell me, has Zoey forgiven you for it?”
The door closed sharply behind Elijah, the silence he left behind him thick and heavy.
The second the other man left the room, Natches turned to Dawg slowly, watching as his cousin came out of his chair, the older man’s expression heavy.
“Let’s find Rowdy,” Dawg announced then. “We’ll take care of this little problem Graham brought home with him, make sure Lyrica’s safe, then we’re going to have a little talk, cuz.”
It was evident Dawg was unaware of Harley or the beating Natches had evidently arranged.
Without waiting for an answer, Dawg moved from the kitchen and headed for the front door. Moments later, the sound of the door closing with deliberate patience sent a small flinch through the muscles at Natches’s jaw.
“You don’t seem the type to arrange a beating, Natches,” Graham remarked, actually feeling an ounce or two of compassion at the heavy look on Natches’s face.
“Well,” Natches murmured as he propped his hands on his hips, hung his head, and shook it slowly, “I’ll be damned. That’s what I thought, too. That would have been a waste of my time, don’t you think?”
Leaning back against the counter, arms folded over his chest as he crossed his ankles, Graham contemplated the other man’s expression thoughtfully.
“Don’t remember it, huh?” he asked.
It really wasn’t Natches’s style. He liked exercising his own fists whenever the opportunity arose.
“I don’t,” Natches murmured, frowning. “But you know what?”
“Hmm?” Graham watched him closely.
“Whatever the hell he’s talking about, he’s right about one thing. Zoey hasn’t forgiven any of us.”
A hard shake of his head and Natches straightened, his arms dropping as he headed for the kitchen door, following Dawg’s departure. “Keep her safe.” Deadly menace filled the Mackay’s tone. “I’m sure we’ll be back.”
Graham remained silent as the other man stalked from the house, the door closing a bit louder that time. Natches wasn’t known for his temperance. His temper, yes.
With their departure the heaviness in the atmosphere of the house dissipated, and Graham found himself finally able to draw a deep breath.
No one said dealing with Mackays was easy. Doogan had once sworn that working with them was like facing demented zombies whose main aim was the destruction of a person’s sanity rather than his life.
“Dawg was spinning his tires as he pulled out, which usually means he’s pissed off with Natches,” Lyrica said as she reentered the kitchen, that flirty little skirt caressing the flesh of her silky thighs.
The little white cotton tank was tucked into the low waistband, the strappy sandals making her feet look more delicate than normal.
Restraining a sigh, Graham felt his cock swelling behind the zipper of his jeans and the arousal beginning to tighten his body again.
“Who’s Harley?” he asked.
She knew who he was talking about, at least. For a second, Lyrica’s eyes flickered with sadness as her expression became more somber, with a hint of pain.
