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I evaded him and moved back.
“I’m sick of your shit, Bartholomew.”
“That’s a shame, because I’m just getting started.”
His jaw clenched, and his face tinted red with anger. “You don’t deserve our loyalty. You don’t give a shit about us.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Yeah?” He stepped closer, his shirt stained with drops of beer. “Then tell me about John. Who was he?”
I didn’t understand the question. “His wife was Johanna. His son—”
“See? You have no fucking idea.”
I still didn’t understand, and I didn’t drop my guard because I knew it was probably a distraction.
“You had no fucking idea that John was my brother—because you don’t give a shit about any of us.”
I kept a straight face and hid my surprise. No, I didn’t know that, and I wasn’t sure how I’d forgotten…or maybe I’d never known. Now it all made sense, his irrational anger, his silent protests.
He lunged at me, swiping the bottle left and right.
I dodged all of the swings—except one.
He sliced me down the arm, and the blood immediately poured.
The sight of red egged him on, and he moved to land a fatal blow.
I ducked the next hit, spun around, and twisted his arm until I slammed it on the table. The bottle flew free.
He screamed and tried to evade my hold, knowing my bottle was going right for his neck.
I threw it against the wall instead, then pinned his arms back before I kicked him in the knees. He fell to the floor, and I pushed him down, getting him flat on his stomach. My boot moved to his head, a warning to keep him still. “If I didn’t give a shit about my men, you’d be bleeding out right now.”
He breathed hard against the floor, his cheek pressed into the wood.
“I want no more of this.” I pulled my boot from his head. “Your betrayal is punishable by death, but I’ll spare your life. I’m sorrythat I let John die, but now we’re even. I know John would want you to accept my mercy and live your life.”
He stayed on the floor and continued to breathe hard.
I extended my hand to him.
He continued to lie there, as if struggling to accept the humiliation. Not only had I bested him, but I also had the mercy to spare him. I reminded him exactly why I was in charge, why I’d run the Chasseurs for a decade.
He finally pushed himself up but didn’t take my hand.
I withdrew the gesture. “Are we good?”
He wouldn’t look directly at me, furious.
I raised my voice. “My mercy has an expiration date, Silas.”
“Yes.” He finally met my stare. “We’re good.”
The cut was deep, so I had to get stitches from the doctor on my payroll. It was wrapped in black gauze afterward to keep the wound clean as it healed. I didn’t want Laura to see it because she would worry, but it would take at least five days before the wrap was gone, and then there would be a scar underneath—and she would notice that anyway.
I’m on my way.I never asked her permission. If she was mine, then I could be with her whenever I wished. Didn’t need to explain a damn thing.
