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“Maybe he thought it would earn him some brownie points?” Geo asks, finally turning my way.
“Brownie points?” I scoff, and then a snort sneaks out. A chuckle following. “Have you ever used that term before in your life? What are you, a middle-aged church wife?”
Geo stares at me for a beat before a smile crosses his face. I glance at him, then back at the road.
“Shut the fuck up,” he mutters, then turns back toward the window.
“Fucking brownie points,” I say, shaking my head. “Too fucking good. But either way, he knows not to pull that shit again.”
“I’d say the feeling of the cold end of a gun barrel will keep him from considering branching out on his own if the thought crosses his mind.”
“That was the goal,” I say.
I turn into the drive and wait for the new gate to roll open. I get a strange sense of satisfaction when I see the updated security measures I’ve put in place. I stretch my hands, enjoying the bandage being off my injured one. I took it off this morning, irritated at always having it in the way. My wound is healing—still nasty, but scabbed over—and I have some range of motion, more than I thought I would have.
I pull forward to the guard shack and lower my window. “Car behind me will be staying here. Make sure you write it on the list to allow through, but not out. I’ll send them to get ID passes from the security inside.”
The guard nods, and I keep going, speeding up the driveway, and pull in front of the garage. Fernando steps inside from where he was leaning against the garage wall and smacks the door opener before I have a chance to use the one in my car. I drive inside and park the car. Geo is opening his door before I can say anything, and I let him go.
I watch him stalk to Lucas’s car before the garage door shuts behind my vehicle, obscuring him from my view. I take a deep breath. My thoughts have been running like crazy over the last few hours, trying to determine if it’s a mistake to make them stay here. And if it’s a mistake to trust anyone beyond myself and Geo to make a stand in the end.
I know the others are tired of how we are treated, tired of having our decisions made for us, tired of the moral boundaries being crossed that we can’t emotionally come back from. God knows how our fathers sleep at night. Something tells me quite well since they are dark-hearted and morally bankrupt and probably don’t give two shits about ruining lives. All they want is more cash in their accounts, more clout in the community, more people to fear them.
Maybe you could say the same about me. I have no qualms with some business practices. I’ve dealt with my share of things that a normal person would gasp about. I’ve tortured and killed. But I draw the line at trafficking people. They should be able to make their own decisions. As I’ve made mine. And I hold the rest of my family to the same standards. Lilliana should be free to be herself, and I guess I should allow Wryn the same now that her entire reason for being here is dead.
It seems like the long-drawn-out process of searching for Ruby snapped closed in my face, not even allowing me time to process it. I should tell Wryn. I should allow her to make her choice. But I can’t. I’m too afraid that she might leave me, too, and I don’t know if I can deal with that right now. I’ve become accustomed to having her here, having her in my bed, being able to touch her. I’ve let my heart become affected, and now, here I am, keeping secrets from her and expecting her to stick around for me after I’ve been so hot and cold.
I grab the door handle, pulling it open roughly, and shove the door away from me. My hand barks in pain, and I mutter a curse, irritated by the healing process.
Why hasn’t it gotten better yet? How fucking long does it take for bone and muscle to repair?
Minor inconveniences keep me grumbling as I stalk into the side door of the house and up the stairs. I slam my bedroom door open and notice the bathroom door is ajar. The sound of water running has me smiling, heading that way as I anticipate holding Wryn’s heavy breasts in my hands, the head of my cock sliding through her wet lips.
I need a release after the day I’ve had. I push the door open further, and I frown as my eyes meet empty air in the shower. They track down the wall, finding Wryn curled on the tiled floor, water hitting her, and all my previous thoughts leave.
“Fuck, Wryn. What’s wrong?” I ask, throwing the door open. The water is frigid. No wonder there’s no steam in the air or fogged-up glass in the bathroom. “Are you hurt?”
She turns her red-rimmed eyes toward me and shakes her head. I bend into the stream, hissing as the cold water hits me.
“Why is the water so cold?”
I reach up, turning the shower handle until it’s off. Then, I wrap an arm around her neck and the other underneath her, and I grunt as I stand, pulling her into my arms. She soaks the front of my suit, and I notice how pale her skin is.
“How long have you been in there?”
She shrugs, her teeth chattering. I set her on the side of the tub and start to pull her cold, wet clothes off. Her body spasms with chills, and once I have her undressed, I wrap a fluffy towel around her body and grab another to start drying her hair. I don’t say anything else. I focus on my task, letting her decide when she wants to talk. But with each moment that passes, my concern grows, along with my anger.
I don’t know what I’m angry with. Myself? Her? Something else? I don’t understand this or what caused it. Maybe that’s why I’m angry. I hate being out of control, and I have none right now.
It could be what this whole vendetta against our fathers is about.
Getting control.
The thought makes me pause.
Am I doing this because I want to be able to have the final say over everything in my life?
No.I shake my head at myself.
