Page 19 of His Pretty Little Queen

Maybe a cat then…

I look back at her slumber-settled complexion. Sliding my palm down until I'm pressing it to the concave between her hipbones, my chest tightens.Empty.

Christ.

I rise to my feet. Walking from the room, I make sure to shut the door, holding the handle for a moment of hesitation. Leaving her again is utterly unnatural now, not unlike severing a limb.

In my mind, for only a second, I quickly remove any flitter of sentiment that may be active across my face as I notice Bolton. He's stationed a few metres away. I nod at him, saying, "Whenever you don’t have eyes on her, when she goes to our room or the bathroom, I want you to page me immediately so I’m aware no one has eyes on her."

"No privacy for the girl, then, Boss?"

I glare at him, and he swallows, seemingly wishing the fucking question back down his throat. "I mean—"

I stride down the hallway, and his explanation halts at my dismissal. He cares about her, so I let it slide, but he best not misplace his concern, his sense of responsibility, for some kind of rights to her. No one has a right to her. She is mine. In every damn sense. There isn’t a fucker alive I need to share her with—not a father or mother or sibling, and I'm insatiable with her, so this pleases me to no end.

The halls are quiet, so when my phone rings from within my pocket, I scowl, the sound loud enough to have followed my trail back to our bedroom. Loud enough to wake her.

I dig it out, noting the nameJohnand fisting it tightly, barking down the receiver, "Butcher."

My new solider—recruited from the boxing gym—at the warehouse answers frantically, "The fuckin' warehouse was just broken into, Boss! I tried to see the men, but there is still fucking smoke everywhere. They smashed the windows, came through the sides, but I couldn't see ‘em. I shot at someone. Think I hit ‘em. But now the jacks are on their way here. I can hear the sirens. The road in is still black with smoke, so I can’t see a damn thing comin',"

Heat builds through my head. "Who called the police?"

"Neighbours. The boat yard, maybe?"

"I doubt it," I muse more to myself than to him. "Are you alone?"

"Yeah. But all the guns, all the weapons are still here. They didn't take nothin'. I've been tryin' to stash them—"

"Don't stash them. The fire is still burning through the North national forest, so light the entire warehouse up and get out of there. They’ll presume the fire jumped.”

He pauses. "What?"

I rub my forehead, repeating myself, "Check the area. Check no one is inside. Then light it up. I'll talk to the Forensic Fire Marshal tomorrow; just don't be seen leaving."

"The weapons—"

"Will be unsalvageable," I confirm.

"There is somethin' else, Boss. There is…are…" He falters and I have no tolerance for that right now.

"Spit it out," I command.

"They left you somethin'."

I still, dropping my tone, "What?"

"Photos, Boss… Of… of the girl. Lots of 'em…" He obviously wasn't prepared to have this conversation over the phone as trampling his steady voice are bursts of unease. "Some are dated, Boss. Fromtoday. From above. Like from a drone or somethin'. She's sittin' by the pool, with her legs in the water—"

I'm not calm.

The heat that scorches through this Butcher’s blood boils to the fast beat of my thunderous pulse.

A blatant threat.

Dustin…

Or perhaps old Joegrew some Butcher balls.

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