Savage Hearts

13

7

Mal

S

he emerges onto the patio in a burst of angry energy I feel all the way from where I’m sitting, fifteen hundred yards away.

Lying in wait, rather. Inside the same abandoned church belfry I scouted two days ago, when I arrived on the island.

It offers an excellent east-west view of the property. From this vantage point, I can see both the front and back of the estate. With a swing of my rifle’s muzzle to the left or right, my sights can be on Declan’s skull in either his driveway or his backyard.

Right now, they’re on the woman stalking back and forth across the patio.

Her hair is platinum blonde, cut to jaw length, sleek and swinging. Her clinging black cocktail dress is almost nonexistent. And she doesn’t seem to be comfortable in the spiky heels she’s wearing.

Several times as she spins to go the other direction, an ankle wobbles, and she has to throw out an arm to regain her balance.

She’s young, slim, and extremely awkward.

Something about her is fascinating. I can’t look away.

Because of the hair and the dress, it takes me a while to recognize her. But then I note the glasses she’s wearing and suck in a breath. It comes out in a furious hiss.

Poor baby. He wasn’t satisfied with her simply being a w***e.

He wanted her to look like one, too.

Clearly, she’s upset about it. Or about something else he did to her.

Something much worse than a wardrobe change.

Anger boils in the pit of my stomach. That son of a b***h.

I knew he was ruthless when he killed all the leaders of the various American families. With the exception of Kazimir, which isn’t surprising. He’s notoriously hard to kill. Hundreds of men have died trying.

But to bring a girl from the streets to your home to f**k in front of your woman, then tart her up and parade her around so everyone can plainly see her humiliation…

That’s beyond ruthless.

It’s sick.

My anger grows hotter as I continue to watch the girl. She stops pacing and leans against the curved stone balustrade of the patio, folding her arms over her chest and turning her face up to the full moon like she’s trying to draw strength from its glow.

Dragging deep breaths into her lungs, she closes her eyes.

After a moment, she bows her head, as if in prayer.

Furious, I decide that I won’t kill him in front of her. She looks fragile enough already. She doesn’t need more trauma.

I’ll wait until he’s finished with her and she leaves, then I’ll put a bullet in his brain.

Mikhail would understand. He had a soft spot for girls like this. Abused, defenseless girls. A delay of a few hours or days won’t make a difference in the end.

I’ll still get what I’m coming for: my enemy’s blood.

Shoulders slumped, the girl pushes away from the balustrade and reluctantly returns inside. A few minutes later, a group exits the front door.

Declan and his woman are there, along with the girl and half a dozen bodyguards. They pile into a trio of SUVs and pull out of the driveway.

I watch the red glow of the vehicles’ tail lights, wrestling with myself.

Then I climb down out of the belfry and hop onto the motorcycle waiting outside the old church doors, knowing that what I’m about to do is both stupid and dangerous.

And also that my dead brother would approve.

8

Riley

T

he restaurant Declan takes us to is so elegant and upscale, I feel like I should have a sign around my neck apologizing for my attire.

The sign would blame it all on Sloane, of course.

The three of us sit in a corner booth at the back of a large, candle-lit dining room. Spider and the other bodyguards sit at two separate tables nearby.

Every time I glance in Spider’s direction, he’s gazing at me with stern, unwavering focus, like he’s judging my life choices.

That makes two of us.

“So, Riley. Tell me about yourself.”

Lounging against the booth with one arm slung over Sloane’s shoulders, king-of-the-jungle Declan smiles at me. How the man manages to ooze dominance and s****l prowess simply sitting there is one of life’s great mysteries.

Meanwhile, Sloane gazes dreamily up at his chiseled profile with little red hearts in her eyes.

I swear, I never would’ve believed this s**t if I wasn’t seeing it for myself.

“Gee, where to start?” I muse, nibbling on a dinner roll.

Okay, nibbling is a lie. I’m gnawing on it like a farm animal. I’m so hungry, I could chew my own arm off. If the waitress doesn’t arrive with our entrées soon, I’m going to barge straight into the kitchen and start threatening people with a meat cleaver.

“I work as a freelance editor, which I adore. Mainly because of how much I love books, but also because I get to work in my pajamas.”

“And avoid all human contact,” Sloane adds, smiling.

“Yes. That’s a major benefit.”

Declan quirks a brow. “Not much of a people person, are you?”

“It’s not that I hate people, I just feel better when they’re not around.”

Sloane laughs. “Barfly.”

“I love that movie. Mickey Rourke was so dope when he was young.”

Sloane makes a face at me. “Don’t say ‘dope.’ It makes you sound so Generation Z.”

“I am Gen Z.”

“Ugh. That explains why you’re so antisocial.”

“At least I’m not a Millennial. You guys are all narcissists.”

“We are not!” she says, indignant.

When I only stare at her with my lips quirked, she laughs again. “Okay. You got me.”

Declan looks interested in the turn in the conversation. “What generation am I?”

Without thinking, I chuckle and say, “Generation Big D.”

He c***s his head, Sloane lifts her brows, and I backpedal as fast as I can. “The D doesn’t stand for d**k!”