Page 116

Wicker snorts, arms folded. “Face it, Oakfield. You never had a fucking chance at being Duke.”

Grabbing his bloody chin in a hard grip, I ask, “You know why? Because you have no sense of allegiance. West End is a dumpster heap of mangy hotheads, but I’ll give them this: They understand the value of loyalty.”

Wicker’s eyes darken. “Meanwhile, you’ll sell out any and all of us. DKS, LDZ, PNZ, and now BRN. Your shit list is alphabet soup.”

“So what gives you the fucking right,” I growl, digging my fingers into his sweaty face, “to mark up our women like a bathroom stall?”

Bruce’s mouth purses in opposition to my grip, but I see the grin hiding underneath it. “Oh, her pussy must be good to get Lex Ashby this hot under the collar. It’s the innocence, isn't it? If anyone gets the appeal, it’s me. All naïve and eager to do her duty, with those plush lips and perfect tits.” His eyes slide to Pace, and then Wicker. “Yeah, I had big plans to mold Verity into my little fuck kitten. So what if I got a little excited and pre-gamed her with my mark? You got to her first.”

“I’ve been thinking a lot about gifts,” I say, satisfied by the sense of whiplash in his stare. “You see, it’s compulsory in our house to honor our Princess’ burden with tokens of our affection. The problem is, we don’t exactly have much of that. Affection,” I clarify, glancing down at his ring. In this light, it looks dull and faded–dirty. “It’s an issue. I try to excel at everything I do, but when it comes to honoring my Princess with tokens, I just can’t seem to muster up the motivation. She’s a narc, you see. A traitor to her house. If you’d asked me a week ago, I probably would have said she’s a lot like you, actually. But you’re right about one thing.” I grab his finger–the one with the ring–in a tight, sure grip. “Unlike you, Verity Sinclaire does her duty. No matter how she feels about us, she shows up every night to fulfill her obligations. And I think that deserves something more special than roses. Don’t you?”

The bone shears appear in front of me like magic, Bruce’s eyes widening as Pace hands them over.

“Dude, wait,” he rushes out, hand flexing ineffectually as I tug the finger straight. “Wait, wait, wait–I’ll give you the ring, if that’s what you–” His words disappear into a garbled mess of shocked screams when the shears snip right through his lower proximal phalange.

I hold up the severed finger, assessing it thoughtfully. “The faster you are, the cleaner the cut.”

Bruce’s pale face rapidly fills with color, turning him a deep purple. He rants through irate, pained gasps, “You motherfucking psychos! What the fuck? What thefuck! My father is going to put your goddamn heads on a platter! Son of a bitch, you cut off my fucking–”

Carefully laying the finger on Bruce’s knee, I plug my ears.

The shot still reverberates through my eardrums like a crack of lightning, Bruce’s head snapping back. Behind me, there’s a wild shift in the air–Wicker jumping in surprise–but I watch the life seep from Bruce’s eyes, and all I can think about is ugliness.

Ugliness and the men who inflict it on others.

I catch Bruce’s finger right before it rolls off his weakly spasming knee. “Good shot.”

Pace clears the slide of the pistol, shrugging. “Like shooting bears in a barrel.”

“What the hell!” When I turn, Wicker is gaping at the scene, flinging a hand out in annoyance. “We could have gotten more intel out of him. We could have ransomed him to his shithead of a father. Now, he’s useless!”

Glancing at Pace, I reach for a pack of gauze on the table, ripping it open. “Every second he lived was a risk not worth taking.”

Tucking the gun away, Pace explains, “He knew about your grandfather, Wick. If it gets out that Clive Kayes is dead,” he turns to our brother, mouth pressed into a grim line, “then people are going to start looking for his heirs.”

The truth of that hangs heavily in the air between us. If people go looking for Clive’s son, then they’ll begin looking for his grandson soon enough. That makes Wicker a target for any number of psychopaths.

Bruce Oakfield didn’t know it, but he killed himself tonight.

His father, too.

The outrage falls from Wicker’s expression, leaving a distressed frown in its wake. “He could have told us more about your dad.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Pace jerks a shoulder in a shrug. “I’d rather have a brother than a dad.” He looks up, meeting Wicker’s gaze.

All the hardness leaves his blue eyes. “Well, gee,” he grumbles, “if you’re going to get all fucking sappy about it, then at least wait until Oakfield’s brains stop leaking out.”

Pace smirks. “Ruins the moment?”

“Little bit.”

Rolling the finger into the gauze, I look at Pace, “Alert the Barons. They’ve been waiting for our call anyway.”

“What are you going to do?” Wicker asks, eyes on the package in my hand. “More importantly, what are you going to do withthat?”

“I’ve got my own mess to clean up.”

She’s notin the dining room when I arrive that evening.