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He smirked. “Brennan O’Donnelly is sixteen years older than you. I’m only fourteen years older than Victoria. I’ll wait until she’s of age, but do not turn her against me.”
For myself, I was scared. The ramifications of tonight were immense, but, at that moment, I didn’t care what this bastard had against me. What he thought he could hold over me. Didn’t care that the gun he’d used to murder my stepmother was back in his pocket, and didn’t give a damn that he could easily press that to my temple and whisper, “Night, night, Camille,” faster than I could run out of here...
At that moment, I was an older sister. At that moment, I was the only protector my baby sister had.
Pulling free of his hold, I snarled, “I won’t turn her against you, but neither will I lie to her. I won’t help you either. If you think you can turn up three years from now when she’s eighteen and haul her down the aisle, you’re mistaken. You want her, you’ll court her. You want her, you’ll make her want you.” I shoved a finger in his chest, prodding him as I rasped, “She won’t be like Inessa or me. I won’t allow it.”
“You’re not the one holding the cards, Camille,” he warned, his voice a low rumble. The hiss of a threat whispered along my nerve endings, but I didn’t care.
I’d never had anyone back me up. Never had anyone protect me.
Until tonight.
Until Brennan O’Donnelly.
I wasn’t sure how, didn’t care if I was being honest, but his backing gave me more leverage than I might have otherwise had.
“Neither of us are,” I told him coldly. “Seems like both of us are dancing to the Irishman’s tune.”
And with that, I twisted around, picked up the heels I’d discarded earlier, and rushed over to the door.
Seeing that the coast was clear, I made my escape to the staircase, wondering how, in the past twenty minutes, everything, my life, my whole world, had morphed into something that belonged in a true crime novel.
