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She might be in a better state than Dax, but any amount of blood from a gunshot is too fucking much for my wife.
Archer’s brow lifts, the muscle in his neck pulsating with anger.
“He was touching something that belongs to me.” I hold his eyes firm, ensuring he hears every word that I’m about to say. “You might be a part of Emmie’s past. I can hardly erase that. But rest assured, you’re not going to be a part of her future. She’s Cirillo now. And I’m taking her back where she belongs.”
I take a step forward, my gun beside Archer’s foot catching my eye.
Women make you weak.
Love makes you weak.
Dad’s voice echoes in my head as I stare at it.
I dropped it. I fucking dropped it when I ran for her.
You’re the Cirillo heir, Theodore. Heirs do not make mistakes. Ever.
Tension ripples around the room as I hold my head high and close even more space between us while Dax mutters behind me about getting patched up like a pussy.
A couple more of Archer’s boys stand behind him, trying to be threatening but I don’t even grace them with eye contact.
They’re nothing. And they’re all going to let me walk out of here with my wife and forget any of it ever happened.
They know full well that if they don’t, they’ll all be in cuffs and in the back of a paddy wagon before the sun comes up for their less-than-legal business practises.
“Emmie belongs here. She’s Lovell through and through.”
“Nah.” I tilt my head to the side patronisingly. “She was just slumming it until her white knight arrived to show her how a queen should really live.”
His jaw tics as he looks down at her.
“You care about her. I appreciate that. But you called me, remember? You know exactly where she belongs.”
He holds my eyes for another two seconds but has no argument.
I just wish I fucking knew what game he was playing.
Why call me to come take her home and then argue with me about where she belongs?
Is it just his pride talking?
Is he just trying to look like a big man in front of his boys, when the reality is that he’s just riding his big brother’s coattails?
I watch as he lowers down and his fingers wrap around my gun. Mine twitch in my need to stomp on his fucking hand to stop him from touching it.
“You’re right,” he concedes, standing and holding my piece out between us. “She was always too good for this place. For the shit hand she’d been dealt. I’m just not sure how being bound to you is actually any better.”
“Then I guess it’s a good thing none of that is your concern anymore, Wolfe. Now,” I say, finally looking to his backup, “if you’ll excuse me. I’m going to take my wife home and let her sleep off whatever the fuck you and your den of wolves have plied her with.”
“Emmie doesn’t do drugs,” he states confidently, trying to win this pissing contest by proving he knows her.
“I know. But in case you hadn’t noticed, she’s fucking passed out in my arms right now, and I’d put money on it that it’s not from your cheap-arse booze.”
“A-acid,” Dax blurts from behind me. “S-she… we… took acid.”
My fingers curl around my gun as the need to spin back around and take a better shot burns through me.
“You’re lucky she’s in my arms, Daxton,” I growl, taking it from Archer and holding his eyes. “Sort your boys out, boss. They’re a mess. And we don’t like mess on our turf.”
