Page 93

“St. Michael! Get your ass here right now!” I yell, marching barefoot down the spiral steps, clutching my mangled boot as evidence. “Cade, you would not believe what Saint did . . .”

I stop dead in my tracks, the rest of my words trailing off as I take in the scene in the living room.

The dining table is covered in food: perfectly golden toast, eggs, fruit, and crispy bacon. A pot of freshly-brewed coffee sends aromatic tendrils curling through the air. It’s like a cozy spread from a magazine, a picture of normalcy.

Except it’s not the food or the man’s culinary skills that has me frozen in place.

It’s the two men tied to the dining chairs who look like they’ve gone several rounds in a ring with death. They’re talking to Cade in slurred Spanish.

Their faces are battered and swollen, streaked with dried blood. One’s nose is bent at a grotesque angle. Terror rolls off them as they sit perfectly still, like prey waiting for the predator to strike.

And Cade.

He lounges at the table like it’s any other morning, legs stretched out, one arm draped casually over his chair as he munches on an apple. He glances at me with that casual indifference I’m starting to recognize as lethal.

Saint sits on the floor behind Cade, staring straight ahead at the two men while he sneaks sideways glances at me.

My brain stumbles to catch up on the scene, my eyes flicking between Cade, the beat-up Spaniards, and the ruined boot still dangling from my hand.

“What’s happening?” I choke out.

Cade takes another bite of his apple, chewing slowly as if he has all the time in the world. “In a minute.” His eyes flick briefly to Saint. “Saint, you got something to say about that boot?”

At the mention of his name, Saint immediately lays down flat with his head on his front paws and looks away—but not before side-eyeing me again.

Guilty as hell.

I roll my eyes at Saint’s attempt at denial, but I’m still puzzled by his behavior. “Why on earth would he even do that, Cade?”

Cade sighs and flicks his wrist in what seems like exasperation. “He used to pull that stunt to stop me from going away but he hasn’t done it since he was a puppy.”

His voice drops into an icy register. “Now what do you think gave him the impression that you were leaving?”

Mystomach drops like a stone. I recall the way Saint’s eyes tracked my every move at the supermarket. Shit. “I-I have no clue,” I lie.

Cade just watches me, his gaze expertly cutting through the layers I’ve rebuilt since last night. His jaw tightens with a flicker of what looks like disappointment—but it’s gone in an instant, replaced by a steely hardness.

“Sit down, princess.”

Oh. We’re back to ‘princess’ now, are we?

His tone is so chilling that the snarky response doesn’t make it past my lips. My butt hits a chair. Sitting at the table with our battered guests makes this all the more real.

Who the hell are they and why did Cade beat them up this badly?

Cade pushes a plate of French toast in front of me and pours me orange juice. Although my stomach growls, I can’t eat or pretend this is normal. Those guys are bound to their chairs. With ropes for fuck’s sake.

“Now that everyone’s here,” Cade begins, “perhaps you ladies would like to catch us up on the latest gossip.”

The one with the broken nose flinches when Cade picks up a fork and points it at him. “You’re up first, bozo.”

The man swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. He must be around forty, but terror makes him look like a kid caught stealing. He glances nervously at Cade, then at me, before stammering, “N-No sabíamos que la chica—“

“Inglés!”Cade barks.

The man flinches, nodding quickly as he switches to heavily accented English. “I swear, w-we didn’t know the woman was yours. Or that you was . . .” he swallows again, his voice dropping to a terrified whisper,“El Segador.”

El Segador? Another of Cade’s aliases?