CRAVING THE WRONG MAN

SHE WAS

RHETT

*Tell Saint I'm dead.*

Mia's words keep replaying in my head as I walk through the garage toward the main doors. She had looked straight at me when she said them, and there had been nothing uncertain in her voice. She wanted me to lie to my brother. She wanted me to make Saint believe she was dead.

I'm not going to do that.

I won't lie to Saint, and I won't lie to anyone else for the sake of making this easier, especially not for the stupid bastard who has spent his entire life making decisions first and dealing with the consequences only when they finally catch up with him.

Part of me wants to give Mia exactly what she asked for. I want Saint to feel the full weight of believing his wife is dead. I want him to wake up tomorrow with the image that he walked away carrying another woman while Mia was left behind.

But wanting him to suffer isn't the same as giving him what he deserves. If I tell him Mia is dead, I'm making the choice for her. I've spent three years watching my brother make choices for Mia, and I'm not going to become another man who does it.

I push through the garage doors and step out. Several motorcycles are parked across the lot, their engines ticking softly as they cool. My men are spread around, some near the entrance and others watching the road.

I glance back toward the building, wondering whether Mia is still sitting in that room thinking I'm going to lie to Saint.

I understand why she wants Saint to believe she's dead. After everything that happened, I understand the anger behind it. But I also know what happens when people make decisions while they're bleeding. They make choices that feel good for a few minutes and hurt like hell afterward, and Mia has had enough of that tonight.

Saint can live with uncertainty. He can wake up every morning wondering whether the woman he abandoned is somewhere alive, breathing, and remembering the moment he chose another woman over her. For now, that is enough for me.

Headlights appear at the end of the road, and every thought in my head disappears as my attention shifts toward them.

The first motorcycle turns into the lot, followed by another and then several more. The engines roar through the quiet night as the bikes spread out across the entrance, and I don't need anyone to tell me who they are.

Night Saints.

Of course.

Saint isn't coming with this many men because he expects trouble. He's coming with them because he knows exactly what kind of trouble I am.

The first motorcycle stops, and Saint gets off. For a moment, we simply look at each other from across the parking lot.

My younger brother looks like a man who hasn't slept. His jaw is tight, his eyes are hard, but there is something frantic underneath all that anger. He's afraid, and he should be.

His gaze moves across the garage, searching every corner of the property before settling on me.

“Where is she?”

I don't move as I look at him. “You came all the way here to ask me that?”

“Where is Mia, Rhett?”

His voice carries across the lot, sharp enough that several of my men glance toward him.

I slip my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “You're asking the wrong person.”

Saint takes a step forward, then another. He barely gets three feet before two of my men move into his path.

His hand drops instinctively toward his weapon, and every gun around the yard comes up at once. The entire parking lot goes silent.

I don't raise my voice because I don't need to. “I wouldn't come closer if I were you.”

Saint's eyes move from my men to me. “Move your men.”

“No.”

“Rhett.”

“You heard me.”

His chest rises and falls heavily, but despite his anger, he doesn't reach for his gun. He knows better.

That's the difference between us. Saint is powerful because men follow him. I'm dangerous because I don't need to prove that my men will. One word from me and every man standing behind him is gone and Saint knows that if this becomes a fight, his men would loose terribly.

“I'm not here to fight you,” he says.

I give him a slow look. “You rode into my property with armed men after midnight. Don't insult me by pretending you came here for a conversation.”

“This isn't your property.”

“No.” I glance around the garage before looking back at him. “It isn't. Which makes it even more interesting that you decided to come here demanding something from me.”

His jaw clenches. “I need my wife.”

The words hit something ugly inside me, not because I believe him, but because some part of me has wanted to hear Saint say those words for years. Now that he finally does, I know exactly why he's saying them.

Fear.

Not love. Not yet.

He lost control of the situation, and now he wants back what he thinks belongs in his hands.

I keep my face blank. “Your wife?” I chuckle “Do you have a wife?”

“Yes.”

“You're suddenly interested in your wife?”

Something flashes across his face. “You don't know what happened.”

“I know enough.”

“You don't know anything.”

“I know you preferred your wife dead rather than the other woman”

Saint goes completely still.

I take one slow step toward him. “I know you left Mia behind because someone put a gun in front of you and asked you to choose. I know you chose Maren. And I know you had enough time to rethink your decisions before you walked away.”

His face tightens. “You weren't there.”

“No,” I say calmly. “But she was.”

For the first time, Saint looks away, even if only for a second.

“You don't get to come here demanding answers from me,” I continue. “If you want to know where your wife is, maybe start by asking yourself where you left her.”

“She was taken.”

“And you left her.” I arched my brows at him.

“I had no choice.”

“There is always a choice.” I drop “I've known you long enough to know how you make decisions.”

I let the words settle between us before continuing. “I've watched you spend your entire life believing that being president meant you could fix whatever you broke afterward. Maybe you thought Mia would be another thing you could fix once all of this was over.”

Saint's expression darkens. “She is my wife.”

“She was.”

The words hit him harder than I expect