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“That wasn’t me playing father, that was friendly advice.” He glares at me, and it’s identical to hers. The clench of his jaw, the purse of his lips…
Spinning around, I’m about to walk out of the kitchen when he grabs my pulsing arm and yanks it hard enough that I stop.
The depth of his voice lowers. “Stay away from my daughter. Got it, soldier?”
“Or what?” I have no idea why I say it, if not to antagonise him.
Let’s face it, Fleur may be stunning in her own way, but she’s not my type. I like my women with the ability to know when to shut the fuck up…and preferably not knocked up by another guy. Besides, who makes a move on their brother’s piece?
Lucian doesn’t verbally reply, but his grin is sinister enough to deliver his threat. And before I lose my shit, I get the hell away from him because nothing good can come from this in the here and now.
Although he’s barking up the wrong tree, I ignore the urge to check on Fleur. Instead I head for the Jeep. Getting in, I start the engine as I glance at the house, debating whether or not I can trust Lucian with her.
The man just warned me away from her…his daughter…
Still, I’m here to protect her. Aren’t I?
Shit. I cut the engine and sit back breathing in the silence as though it can quell the unease inside me as Lucian’s words roll around and round in my head.
Stay away.
She’s not meant for you.
Don’t get ideas.
Fuck it. I start the truck and drive away, only to stop when the cottage is out of view and turn back. I park far enough away that I can keep an eye on the place, but there is enough distance for me to get my head straight.
The house is dimly lit, the shutters are still closed, but where the back door has been open, the stagnant air has been flushed through. It’s still not exactly fresh, but it’s better. Still, we’re not staying.
“Where’s Fleur?” I ask Lucian. He’s sitting on an old armchair, laptop open on his lap, typing furiously.
“Asleep.”
He doesn’t bother looking up, keeping his eyes on the screen intently. The candles dotted around give him an eerie glow.
“How much do you know?” he asks, finally flitting his gaze to mine.
I reach for my weapons on the coffee table, checking each over in turn before holstering them. Good or bad guy, I don’t trust him. I was raised around men like him. The kind that think their belated good deeds are enough to erase their sins. They’re not. And Lucian Fairfax isn’t a good guy.
“Enough.”
“Then you know you have no hope in hell of protecting her on your own.”
“I’ve had worse odds.”
I’ve looked death in the eyes and lived to see another day. I’d say our current odds are better than those.
“This isn’t a mission.” Closing the laptop, he stands. Hands slipping into the pockets of his dark jeans, he adds, “It’s a vendetta.”
“Mission…vendetta…in my world they’re the same fucking thing.” I watch him take his measure of me. “And I fancy my odds right now, so don’t fuck with my plan to appease your conscience.”
Frosty. I’d say that’s the best way to describe the atmosphere between us. He’s clearly got an issue with my social standing. Lucian’s a typical yuppie—rich, entitled, and as fucked up as the rest of us. Maybe more, because money can’t seem to buy these people fucking decency. They need life to fuck them over in order to bring them down a peg or two.
“Get some rest.” He sits back in the chair, pulling a pair of glasses from his pocket and grabbing a leather-bound journal that looks a lot like the ones Christopher and the guys had been going through in London.
“We’re out in the open here. If you found us…we can’t stay here.”
“I didn’t find you. I was waiting because sooner or later she would’ve come to her mother.” He swallows, marking the page with his thumb as he holds the book to his chest. “But you are right, we can’t stay here. So, you’re going to put your head down for a few hours, and then we’re getting out of here. We can make it to the border before the sun comes up.”
