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She shivers involuntarily as I kneel in front of her. Despite my threats, I’d never hurt a woman, but Ivy isn’t a helpless damsel in distress. She’s a murderer who has to face the consequences of her actions. No one screws over the Dukes and gets away with it—even if they’re a pretty redhead who I saw a future with.
“Fre—”
I sink the needle into her neck to silence her. “Sweet dreams, Ivy Penrose.”
Her lips part in surprise at my speed. They make the perfect o-shape, reminding me of how good it sounded when she moaned my name while I buried my cock inside her. I can’t think about that. Not now.
Seconds later, her eyelids close. Her limbs go limp, and she slumps backwards. I give it another minute before moving her. She pretended to be her sister before faking her death, so she’s not above pretending to be unconscious.
When I’m content enough time has passed, I release her from the restraints and scoop her sleeping body into my arms. Her head lulls, and her red tresses trail over the side of my arm. I try not to look down, ignoring every instinct telling me to hold her tighter to protect her.
She makes a cute, gentle snore, and I curse myself, remembering what she’s done. We’re not characters in a love story. I’m not saving a princess from an evil monster who has kept her locked in a tower. Ivy is the villain we need to tame.
She’s met Freddie Montgomery before, but Ivy is about to meet the Duke’s leader for the first time.
CHAPTER 5
SEB
Istare into the fireplace, watching the jumping flames taunt me. If I focus hard enough, I can almost see the orange flickers morph into faces: Bram, Callen, Freddie…Ivy.
I shuffle on the spot. The armchair is less comfortable than it looks, but I can’t complain when I have Skeller Rock whiskey. I swill the amber liquid around the sides of the crystal glass. It’s the best way to unwind after breaking into an assassin's lair and suffering through a helicopter ride from hell. It’s a miracle no one died on our journey to Torean’s secret Scottish hideaway.
Although I showered, I’m still wearing my dirty clothes. They’re stained with Bram’s blood, but being far from my regular dry cleaners is the least of our concerns. Exhaustion threatens to take over my body, but my mind is too active to contemplate sleeping.
Opposite me, Freddie sits on a well-worn navy sofa. He’s hunched over, nursing his glass, lost in his thoughts. I jump as the door hits the wall behind us, signalling Callen’s arrival. He saunters in, wearing a tartan dressing gown, and shakes his head to toss his wet hair around like a dog.
“Well?” I jump up, almost spilling the rare whiskey. “How is he?”
“Your boyfriend is going to be just fine. He has the best doctor.” Callen raises his eyebrows. “What did you expect?”
I’m too relieved to reply with a sarcastic comment. We were lucky Callen was around. Without him, Bram would have bled to death. For all his shortcomings, and no matter how crazy he drives me, Callen belongs in the Dukes.
“Good,” Freddie replies, although his words are empty. He’s in the room, but his mind is elsewhere.
Callen plops himself down on the shag rug in front of the fire, lying out and stretching, proudly displaying his hairy legs poking out from underneath his robe. “So, what now?”
“A change of clothes would be nice,” I mutter.
I don’t like unfamiliar surroundings, especially when it’s a remote castle a few hours outside of Edinburgh with Callen’s psychopathic twin roaming the halls. Torean Campbell is bad fucking news, and his reputation almost makes his brother look like a saint.
“You can borrow some of mine,” Callen replies, “but I thought you didn’t like my style.”
“Beggars can’t be choosers,” I say, then frown. “Does this place even have central heating?”
“You Southerners are too delicate,” Callen says.
“I’ll take that as a no,” I grumble.
The castle is Torean’s most secure location. We’re on private land in the middle of nowhere, with an impressive security system rigged up to monitor its borders, making it akin to Broadmoor. We can stay for as long as we need, as long as we stick to the East Wing. He and his cronies have free rein of the rest of the place.
Callen turns his attention to Freddie. “What’s the plan, boss?”
Freddie doesn’t respond. Maybe he’s finally run out of answers. We all have.
“When can I see him?” I ask Callen, changing the subject to give Freddie more time to answer. Or maybe because I know he doesn’t have a plan, and I’m not ready to face that either.
“He’s healing,” Callen says. “The last thing we need is a puppy dog clambering all over him.”
