Page 33 of Grim’s Delight (The New Protectorate Syndicate #1)

SEVENTEEN

“You’re going to deliver my daughter to me tonight.”

Felix picked at his claws, his swivel chair turned toward the windows behind his desk.

Outside, he could just make out some little Amauris running around in the dark, squabbling over a ball and tackling each other into the soft grass.

It was damn good to see. He and the cousins never had the chance to run around like that, squealing like little piglets in the moonlight.

They’d had guns put in their hands too early and had been taught to compete with each other, not play. It was a miracle they’d managed to scrape together the camaraderie they had. Certainly none of the elders or their parents’ generation cared if there was loyalty between them.

Only Dora learned to value it. Too bad that revelation came too late. By the time she realized she’d made a mistake, she’d cultivated a generation of monsters.

It was Felix’s job to set that shit right.

When his eyes tracked the progress of Will, one of the littlest children, pelting across the grass with a ball tucked against his chest, a tension he always seemed to carry eased.

It was like releasing a held breath after a little too long. Good, but painful.

One day soon, his and Dahlia’s kid would join the rambunctious crew chasing after Will. They’d have a better life than the one he and the cousins had been given. Felix would make sure of it.

But whatever softness existed in him didn’t extend to Alastair fucking Bowan.

“Took you long enough to find her,” he replied, sniffing disdainfully.

He could feel Milo’s exasperated frown from across the room, but he didn’t care about antagonizing the old prick.

“Some father you are. I know you’re new to the job, but you really should keep a closer eye on your kids, or else folks might start to think you’re careless. ”

Alastair wasn’t a yeller. He was too classy for that sort of thing. Instead, his voice came through the line with cool, crisp fury. “Tell me what it’ll take.”

Ransoms, tribute, exchanges of favors — these were all normal things in their world.

Between syndicate families, kidnappings happened all the time.

Generally, they were fairly civilized affairs, and one could expect to be treated well until the ransom was paid, since there was a chance the captor’s family members might meet the same fate someday.

To avoid a cycle of retribution, it was generally agreed that it was best to hold any torture or mistreatment until after ransom talks fell through.

So it was a perfectly reasonable request for Alastair to make. The problem was that when it came to Dahlia, Felix wasn’t anywhere close to reasonable.

Claws sinking into the armrest of his chair, Felix calmly informed him, “There is no amount of money that would make me give her to you.”

Milo made a sound from his place on the leather couch. It was a cross between a sigh and a groan.

Felix shot him a glare. He had no idea what his cousin thought he’d do.

They both knew there wasn’t a chance he’d actually let Alastair buy Dahlia back.

Maybe if she’d been someone else they could’ve reached a deal, but she wasn’t.

She was his. She’d been his a lot longer than she’d been a Bowan, and he hadn’t been bluffing when he told her that the only way he’d step aside was if someone shot him.

Alastair could pry her from his cold, dead claws.

“I always knew you were impulsive and reckless,” Alastair bit out. “But I had no idea you were so eager to start another war when you just finished one.”

“Doesn’t have to be a war. I’ve known Dahlia for years. We met the night Bounds and his anchor killed Julius. That makes my claim older than yours. Acknowledge it and we can come to an agreement.”

“Whatever claim you might’ve had became moot the instant my blood took. She’s a Bowan. She needs to be with Bowans, not with the wild animals you call family.”

His blood pressure rose. “So you can sell her off to the highest bidder? That’s why you met with Yvanna, isn’t it? She wanted your grandnephew to be her groom.”

“And I’ll tell you the same thing I told your aunt: I don’t sell my family. And I certainly wouldn’t sell them to you. No daughter of mine is joining a family who kills each other for fun. You can’t care for her. You’re incapable of it.”

The insult hit its mark. Felix sat up in his chair, the phone’s weak metal body creaking under his brutal grip. “Listen here, fucker?—”

There was no respectful knock on his door. It swung open and hit the wall with a bang, rattling art and photographs.

Felix swiveled his chair around to face the doorway. Milo was already on his feet, one hand straying to the gun on his hip, and he could just make out the top of Marietta’s hair, but all he really noticed was Dahlia.

His focus honed in on her with laser-like precision, blocking out everything besides the figure she cut in the doorway.

Dressed in a mid-length dress of shiny, clingy material and black stilettos, with her hair damp and her cheeks flushed, she looked like she’d just stepped out of one of his fantasies.

Especially when her nipples tightened beneath the draped neckline of the dress.

A raw pulse of hunger nearly distracted him from the way she stormed across the office, her expression a mask of outrage. She didn’t even spare a glance for Milo who watched her with a bemused sort of fascination.

“You’re going to tell me right here, right now, that I can leave,” she announced.

Felix frowned. “We discussed this. You aren’t?—”

Alastair’s voice snapped through the phone’s speaker. “Is that Dahlia?”

“Of course it’s fucking Dahlia,” he growled.

She narrowed her eyes. “Who is that?”

Felix pinched his nose and sighed, “It’s Alastair Bowan.”

Nearly simultaneously, Dahlia held out her hand for the phone and Alastair demanded, “Put her on, boy.”

“I am not putting her on,” he replied, glaring at Dahlia’s outstretched hand. “You don’t need to talk to her. She’s fine.”

“I’ll hear that from her own damn mouth or I’ll burn that gaudy mansion down tonight, whelp.”

“Keep threatening me, prick. See what— Damn it, Dahlia!”

Felix lunged across the desk, trying to snatch the phone back, but she was faster. Dahlia stood a few feet away from the desk, ignoring Milo and Marietta who watched everything unfold like it was the championship round of the UTA shifter games.

Pressing the phone to her ear, she propped a hand on her hip and said, “Hello?”

“Dahlia,” he snarled, pushing up from his chair. He flattened his palms on the mahogany desktop between them. “Give me the phone.”

She eyed him with open disdain. He could just make out the sound of Alastair’s voice coming through the speaker, but not what he said.

“Uh-huh. That’s what I was told. And I can’t imagine it would’ve happened any other way.” There was a pause. She held his glare as Alastair said something else. “No offense, Mr. Bowan, but that really doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Felix’s heart raced. There was no real threat, but his instincts screamed at the thought of her talking to someone who wanted to take her away from him. All he wanted to do was grab the phone and smash it, ending the conversation.

Gathering the flimsy threads of his control, he ordered, “Speakerphone. Now.”

She didn’t obey right away. Frankly, he was surprised she listened at all. Maybe she saw how close he was to ending the call completely. Whatever the reason, Dahlia lowered the phone and tapped the screen.

Placing it on the desk, she said, “You’re on speaker, Mr. Bowan.”

All business now, Alastair asked, “Have you been harmed?”

Felix watched Dahlia’s expression closely. It was gratifying to see she looked a little offended on his behalf when she answered, “No, I haven’t.”

“It’s good to know Felix has some manners after all.” Alastair’s tone was scathing.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Dahlia replied, rolling her eyes.

Felix made a face. He couldn’t very well deny it, but that didn’t mean he wanted Dahlia and Alastair getting all chummy about it.

“Listen, Mr. Bowan,” she continued, ignoring him. “There seems to be some cultural misunderstanding happening here, so I’d appreciate it if you could explain what you want with me.”

There was a slight pause. “You’re my daughter.” The answer was brusque, utterly self-assured. “You belong with the Bowans. You should be here, living with us and under our protection.”

He had no idea what answer Dahlia expected. Felix had told her that Alastair would claim her as his daughter, so he really didn’t feel like the shocked look on her face was warranted.

“You don’t even know me,” she protested.

“I don’t need to. Most people don’t get to choose their children. We accept what we’re given, whatever and whoever they are.”

Dahlia seemed taken aback by that for a moment. Gathering herself, she muttered, “That’s lovely, I guess. But I’m a grown woman, Mr. Bowan. You can’t just decide where I should live and who I should be with.”

Alastair brushed her point off as easily as one might swat a fly. “I’m your father. Of course I can.”

“How do we know for sure that it was your blood, anyway?” Felix arched a brow at her sudden backtracking on the fact she’d been so very sure about just an hour ago. “I mean, really, it could’ve been anyone?—”

“Dahlia,” Alastair sighed, “we both know that isn’t likely.”

She swallowed. “So what happens now?”

“Felix sends you to my home unharmed, avoiding any bloodshed, and you move into the house with myself and my anchor — who hasn’t slept in my bed since this happened, by the way. He’s furious I let you be taken. For the sake of my relationship, Dahlia, you need to come home.”

Felix reached for the phone. “Not happening, prick.”