Page 10 of Billionaire's Promise

"I will question the man—"

"What the fuck—!?" Saint explodes, and I hold up my hand.

"—when he regains consciousness. He’s currently still out."

"Where have you kept him?" Sinclair’s voice hardens. "Where are you hiding the motherfucker?" His gaze ping-pongs between Weston and me.

"I’m not hiding him. I simply took him to a safehouse where Weston is treating him."

All eyes turn to Weston who nods, "I am. Asshole's still unconscious but his condition is stable."

Sinclair turns to me, "And when he's awake I get to question him." He narrows his gaze, "I need to be there when the bastard opens his eyes."

"And you will." I widen my stance. "You’ll be there watching with the rest of them, while I interrogate."

"Why you motherfucker—" Saint steps forward.

Sinclair places a hand on his shoulder. "Easy, Caldwell."

Saint makes a threatening voice low in his throat. "When I get my hands on you, I am going to—"

"Yeah," I blow out a breath, "still the same Saint. More anger than common sense. How you managed to find a woman crazy enough to put up with your shit, I’ll never know. I—"

Saint lunges forward. Both Sinclair and Damian grab him and hold him back.

"Stop it, you two," Sinclair orders. He turns on me, "Apologize to him."

I glower at Saint. "Why should I?"

"Because what you said was unwarranted. We don’t insult each other’s families, or have you forgotten that in the time you were away?"

I wince. Then squeeze the bridge of my nose. "You’re right," I mutter before turning my attention to Saint. "I’m sorry, that was out of line."

"What’s out of line, is you deciding to drop back into our lives, and thinking that you can pick up where you left off," he snarls.

"That’s not why I returned."

"No, you returned because Edward needed your help, though why he reached out to you, of all people, I don’t understand."

"I had the necessary skills to take care of it." I draw myself up to my full height. "And maybe…he trusted me more?"

"Keep telling yourself that." Saint bunches his fingers at his sides, "Clearly, all those years you spent away haven’t changed your capacity to delude yourself."

"Is that what you think?"

"Not just me," he retorts.

I glance around at the faces of my once friends, then stiffen. Their expressions are simply variants of the anger I see on Saint’s.

"It wasn’t just about the man," I finally say. “If it were, he could have just asked Weston.”

Sinclair stiffens. "What other help could he have asked from you?"

I meet his gaze, fold my arms across my chest and wait. Wait.

Sinclair’s forehead clears. "I see." He nods. "How interesting."

"What?" Saint whips his head around. "What the devil do you mean?"