Page 38 of Daddies’ Dark Desires (Forbidden Fantasies #19)

HARPER

I recognize that salted blonde hair and those stern blue eyes immediately.

Not from some chance encounter in the office.

Not from the pool of friends he had over our house when I was younger.

No, this man is from the photos in my dad’s files.

And the picture Grant has in his office—the one with Dad, Grant, Trent, Oliver, and a pair of investors from when they built the firm. They were all in glossy suits, stationed in front of Grant’s office, and the men were young and proud…

Oh god.

This betrayal runs deep.

It sends waves of hot and cold through me. My dad trusted this man, and he died because of it.

Preston Fairchild.

He’s older now, with crow’s feet around the eyes and smile lines, which he flashes at me.

My anger is so momentous that it pricks tears in the backs of my eyes.

I want this man dead.

His steps are lazy as he adjusts his shining gold cufflinks, but his gaze never leaves mine.

A metallic taste fills my mouth. I must have bitten myself.

I’m wracking my brain for information about this man since Oliver has gone quiet. Which I totally get, but what did Dad say about him?

Easy on the eyes. Suave. Comes from money.

Natural connections to entitlement and moral corruption. He doesn’t mind hurting others to get what he wants.

Too obvious.

He’s going to play this like he can charm me. Like I’m dripping to have him in my pants just like every other rich playboy I’ve come across before.

If he wasn’t a traitor, he might have been right. But as much as I can appreciate a bad boy or three, I don’t like slimy terrorists who align themselves with cartels.

“You really are his daughter,” he says softly, head tilting as he takes me in, savoring the moment.

I’m not in my signature skirt, but my pants are so tight it’s as if they’re painted on and my blouse highlights my curves. I kept the heels. I know how to fight in them, and they make for a handy weapon when needed.

Preston takes another step closer, hovering behind where Sunny is propped on the couch. I don’t like how he’s using his proximity to her as a threat to us both.

“Ryan begged for your life, you know.” His voice is soft and mocking.

The air in the room is fire, and the world narrows on him. I hate this man.

“Pathetic, really.”

“I’ll show you pathetic.” I step forward automatically, hands balled into fists. But it’s a lone step.

Still, Preston’s eyes flash with malice, and his soft laugh mocks me.

My skin prickles. It’s like a slap to the face. He doesn’t think I can do this.

I’m here, aren’t I?

The poke at my fury is an attempt to deflate my threats, but it doesn’t mean I don’t have what I say I have.

I mean, I don’t. I have plenty of ways of getting the evidence to someone if something happens to me, but the guys told me not to think that way. Which is fine because I’m considering the many ways I can shove these heels up Preston’s ass.

He points at me jovially. “There she is again. Your mother.”

I’m back to amusing him.

Back to wanting to smash a fist in his face.

He nods, but it’s not at me.

A shadow moves at my right. One of the cartel men—tall, scarred, breath like stale cigarettes—clamps a hand around my upper arm, his grip crushing muscle against bone.

“You’re coming with us,” he growls.

Another lifts Sunny from the couch, hoisting her with a grip under her arms. Her feet kick out, thrashing against his hold.

I yank at my arm, even though I know it’s fruitless. “Let go of her.”

A small tug has me pivoting, and I slam my heel down on his foot, but he moves fast enough that I hit the hard toe of his boot instead of the soft part of his upper foot.

My captor swings me until I swear I hear my shoulder pop. Pain flares through my arm.

The investor doesn’t even flinch.

“No. Take the blonde,” he orders lazily, as if deciding between wines. His gaze pins me. “But that one…she’s mine.”

My pulse spikes so hard it blurs my vision.

Sunny’s wide eyes lock on mine over the brute’s shoulder, panic flashing.

All I have to do is say the safe word, and my men will come in with guns blazing. Oliver’s messed with their surveillance feed so they don’t know how close my men truly are.

It’s an easy safe word.

“Daddy.” The perfect safe word because these assholes will think I’m calling for my dead father.

The front door explodes inward, the sound splitting the air into jagged edges. I flinch and duck out of the way, even though there aren’t any bullets flying yet.

Trent and Grant storm in, guns up, sights locked on their targets. The crack-crack-crack of suppressed gunfire follows, each shot a heartbeat in reverse. They take out the four cartel guys in the room easily, but more are coming from the back.

In the chaos, Preston is trying to soft foot his way back the way he came, he’s moving slowly to not draw attention. But I see him.

I pick up a dropped gun from one of the cartel members and follow him. It’s cold and heavy in my hand.

Sunny totters on her feet, hands still bound and cloth still wedged in her mouth.

Preston notices her, too, making a quick dash for her, pulling her to him as a shield as another round of bullets go flying.

My friend’s bright blue eyes shine with fear, and my heart nearly stops. As good as I am with a gun, the margin is too low to try, but that doesn’t keep me from following. He’s not getting away with her in tow.

I will not let that happen again.

Heat encases my back. Oliver’s clean and soapy scent calms me and builds my confidence. He’s close enough that his breath stirs the loose strands of my hair. He’s tracking the man, his stance rigid, but I know what he’s seeing: too much risk, too little space.

Neither of us has a shot. My stomach knots even further.

We advance anyway.

Preston glances back, his mouth twisting into something cruel. “Still can’t protect your own, can you, Oliver?”

Preston takes her a few more shuffling steps back, but he doesn’t seem to be in a hurry. It’s like the man can’t help himself. “You pull that trigger, you’ll put a hole in her, too. Can you live with that?”

An idea dawns on me. “That’s alright. She’s dead weight anyway.”

Sunny’s brows flick up in the tiniest, fastest acknowledgment.

And then—god bless her—she goes limp.

Her sudden drop yanks his balance forward, his grip slackening just enough. In the half-second he’s off-guard, Oliver moves.

The gunshot is a single, clean punctuation mark in Preston’s forehead. The boom rings in my ear.

Preston’s eyes go glassy before he hits the ground.

And Sunny is free.