Page 27 of His Ruthless Queen

Scotty leans forward, his elbows leaning on his knees. He watches me with questioning eyes, taking in my distraught look.

I square my shoulders, determined to not look so frazzled. “Get out of my room, Jameson.” Though I meant to deliver it with bite, my voice betrays me. The words sound weak, and like I don’t mean it at all.

He chuckles, standing from the chair. “Fine. I need to shower anyway.”

My eyes bore into him as he approaches my nightstand. He grabs the book beside me and sits at the edge of the bed. A shaky laugh leaves him, and his body sags. “You still have this?” he asks through a whisper.

I nod, but he doesn’t look up to see. He’s too enamored, his fingers running along the front of the old paperback. “Of course,” I rasp. “You gave it to me.”

“Years ago. Haven’t you read it enough?”

My heart sinks while his fingers run along the golden feathers of the peacock. He gave me that copy of Pride and Prejudice as a birthday gift. The edges were frayed from the amount of times I opened it. I’ve never actuallyreadit though. I only used it to be close to him whenever he wasn’t around.

It had been annotated by Scotty. He even color-coated it with tiny sticky tabs. Having the book and his thoughts scribbled in the margins made me feel like he was close to me, even when I wasn’t sure where exactly in the world he was, or what he was doing.

“I haven’t read it,” I say, reaching for the book. I thumb through, picking a blue tab. It opens to a familiar part in chapter twenty. Alongside the highlighted section of a line, Scotty scribbled a one liner. It’s at the rejection of Mr. Collins, where Elizabeth’s mother expects her father to force Lizzy to marry.

“Mothers were as dramatic in 1813 as they are in the twenty-first century, I see.”

He reads the note, then chuckles.

“I should show your mother,” I tease.

He takes the book from me, his fingers skimming the edges as he flips through it. “We were friends once,” he says, tossing it back on the nightstand. With him, he takes my sense of comfort and a pit in my stomach forms.

I nod, my chest squeezing. “We were.” I bite my lower lip, focusing on the tears threatening to release. Then I turn to him, pressing my hand against his wrist. “But you decided my friendship was disposable.”

The fallen look of heartbreak on his face is exactly how I’ve felt since coming back to Boston.

Chapter Thirteen

Scotty:Mouse trap worked.

Callum:Give me an hour.

Scotty:Take your time. I’m having fun.

I slide my phone into my pocket.

A groan escapes the lips of my latest victim as I twirl the blade in my hand. It’s light and small—barely the size of my outstretched palm—and has done damage to the flesh on the man tied before me.

Two hours ago, Declan provided me with a Russian name and location. One hour and thirty minutes ago, Usten Golubev stepped into the alley from the back door of the bar he’s known to frequent. He was easy to apprehend, the stumbling fool practically falling over and into my arms as I offered him a light for his smoke.

Now, the Russian is tied to a chair in the basement of an abandoned warehouse owned by the Irish. The past thirty minutes have been spent acquainting Usten with my torture methods. He’s bleeding pretty heavily, but I won’t let him bleed out.

“Please,” he whimpers, coughing up his own blood. “Why … a-a-are you doing this?”

I pucker my lower lip, pretending to feel sorry for him. “Why a-a-are you doing this?” I mock, playing with the knife in my hand.

I chuckle, my eyes fixated on the wound I placed on his cheek. “Your friends touched my girl,” I say, my voice low, yet filled with rage.

“What … are … you talking about?” His head hangs, and he groans from the pain I’m causing him.

I ignore his question. “Left some nasty bruises on her throat, too.”

He draws in a long breath. “What?”

“I said, you hurt my fucking girl. And now you’re going to pay.” I toss the blade onto the table before me. Then, I circle Usten once, twice, three times. My hands grab the back of the chair, and I tug him toward the makeshift pool I’ve made out of an old whiskey barrel.

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