After showing up here with her in tow, I’d gotten out and she’d refused, perhaps thrown by the threat I made regarding her ex.
Perhaps I wouldn’t have made such an extreme claim had she not nearly gone off with him. After everything else that transpired that night, finding them together felt the most agonizing, like she’d reached into my throat and attempted to thread my intestines through my esophagus.
“My sisters know his people because of sorority connections.” Elena gives the tumbler back to Kal, who places it on the end table, using his free hand to wrestle Noelle’s fingers off his nose. “His parents are big donors at Boston U, and I guess because he’s also an alumnus, he’s a big shot on campus. Guys like that are always trouble.”
“Weren’t there also rumors about how he treated Lenny?” Kal muses, lifting his daughter up to blow a raspberry on her cheek. “I don’t keep up with the tabloids, but I do recall being asked about the breakup at some city council meeting months ago.”
Elena narrows her hazel eyes at him, tapping her thigh just past the hem of her black skirt. “When were you at a city council meeting?”
He brings Noelle back down, looking at his wife over her head. “When I had to go to discuss zoning regulations for a piece of property I bought years ago.”
“I don’t remember being told about this.”
“That’s because you rarely recall the conversations we have when my dick is inside of you, and yet it’s your favorite time to talk.”
“Bloody hell.” Pushing to my feet, I wipe the exhaustion from my eyes and shrug back into my jacket. “You two were a lot more interesting when you disliked each other.”
“You didn’t come here for interesting; you came here to get me to spy on your girlfriend and make sure she doesn’t go anywhere or do anything bad.”
“Fiancée,” I grit out, though I’m not sure why I bother making the distinction when I can tell neither of them fully believes the stance, anyway. “I just thought she could use a friend, all right? If she won’t open up to me, perhaps she would another woman.”
“Oh.” Elena’s face falls, and she purses her lips. “Well, that changes things.”
Later, after I’ve got the details of the arrangements with Elena and Lenny set up, I head to The Flaming Chariot. Alistair’s already there, drinking tea in my office chair like he belongs there.
“You look cozy, brother.”
He sucks on the end of a cigar, nodding as the door swings shut. “Lock up, will you? This is hardly a matter for prying ears.”
I take the empty seat across from my desk, toying with the bracelet on my wrist as I wait for elaboration.
Alistair clears his throat. “The Aplana Island Art Society is hosting a gala at their gallery soon. I thought perhaps you and the future Mrs. might like to join?”
“You’re phrasing it as a question, but it doesn’t actually feel like I have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice, Jonas.” He inhales, blowing out puffs of smoke in the next second. “I do think you should attend, however. Show yourselves off as a couple to more than just her family and the few wankers who do write-ups on you. Plus, it will help to have a united front in front of my colleagues.”
The idea of dragging her out and about sounds as appealing right now as a lobotomy, but I can’t tell Alistair that I’m having issues. In all the years I’ve worked for him, finishing a job has never been a problem, and I have no intentions of ending that streak now just because the girl involved is so unbelievably unnerving.
“Perhaps you’re just frustrated,” my brother comments, sticking his cigar in the ashtray near my desktop.
Furrowing my brows, I shake my head, realizing I must have said that last bit out loud. “If you mean sexually—”
“Of course, that’s what I mean. For Christ’s sake, Jonas, if you don’t want to shag the Primrose princess, at least stop by a fucking whorehouse and get your dick wet. This is important, you know?”
“Getting my dick wet is high up on your list?”
“I’m just saying that you can’t think straight if all the blood is constantly rushing south.”
Running a hand through his hair, he shifts his gaze to the desk in front of him, the muscles in his jaw tightening. When we were young, Alistair and I didn’t get along; he’s three years older than me, and his mum depicted our dad in a bad light because of the way their relationship ended, leaving her alone with a toddler.
It was only when I became an adult that we began spending any amount of time together, after he approached me to “handle” some issues he was running into with adversaries at his alma mater. It was petty crime at first—little things like busting the fraternity president’s kneecaps because he was trying to sabotage Alistair’s political aspirations, or embezzlement of department funds into investments that would eventually secure his mayoral campaign.
Like most crimes, the small orders began to spiral out of control. The busted kneecaps became broken femurs and missing fingers, and then I joined the ranks of my father when I killed because someone else asked me to.
A partner at Primrose Realty, though not on the official payroll. I suppose the bloke took himself off in an attempt to distance himself from the atrocities committed by the company, but the underground world doesn’t forget.
Nor does it forgive.
Hence why my father wound up on the receiving end, and I got caught. Our connections came to light, damaging the Wolfe family reputation that had only been thrust into the spotlight because of my brother and me in the first place.
Perhaps that’s why I feel such a strong urge to correct my mistakes.
For the shame brought to our family.
Exhaling, I push to my feet, and Alistair’s eyebrows arch. “Leaving already?”
“Apparently, I have a gala to plan for.”
And while I know I should go straight home and let Lenny know about the event, I don’t. Can’t bring myself to for some inexplicable reason—something terrible, caught between betrayal and desire when it comes to the little puppet I’ve let into my life.
Can’t stop thinking about her kneeling before me like a mortal praying to her god, or how she used that weakness against me later to escape.
To be quite honest, that part is not what bothered me, though.
It was the resistance.
The terror.
In that moment, she felt more like a stranger than the night we met, and I’ve been trying to reconcile that sensation—something vile and hollow—with the warmth I’ve otherwise experienced. It’s been utterly maddening, and I’d be lying if I said the juxtaposition hadn’t driven me over the edge of sanity once or twice since.
The problem with her is that I’ve known all along she would be trouble.
I just fear I’ve miscalculated what kind she’d be.
27
My hand slips as I lean over the canvas, and I catch the heel of my palm on the material, watching the large brush I’m holding drive right through it.
Sitting back on my heels, I blow out a long breath, trying to stabilize my emotions. If I let them snowball out of control, the urge to indulge becomes damn near impossible to manage.