Page 24 of Hurt

Even if the thought of doing that was worse than that bastard’s hands on him.

Roland was angry.

Rubbing his thumb over the rings on his right hand, he leaned against the car and glared at the ground between his feet.

Roland didn’t do anger. At least not publicly, not like that.

Contrary to popular belief, he did feel things. He just internalized it. Roland would rather privately deal with his emotions than show the world. The world at large was irrelevant. His emotions and thoughts couldn’t change things, and he would rather act than feel. Perhaps years of being under a microscope had made it that way. The heir to the Weaver Syndicate made him a target of speculation. Grant learned to deal with it by putting on false airs. Roland tried and failed to do that.

He had never in his life lost his cool. Until tonight.

Roland had watched Willow’s dance—he knew she was off. Why, he didn’t dare speculate, but it worried him. He was busy thinking of what could possibly be wrong when he watched her approach Asher.

Willow’s job was not a mystery. He knew what she did and largely didn’t care. At least, he thought he didn’t. Not until he saw her dancing on Asher. Suddenly he was feeling something ugly. An ugly emotion that he didn’t understand. Rage, for sure, but jealousy too. Roland found his hands clenching and picturing Asher’s head between them. He wanted to rip his eyes out for having the audacity to even look at Willow like that.

Then he touched her.

Roland didn’t remember moving. But he did remember holding that frail, pathetic man in his hands and thinking how much he wanted to destroy him. Grant told him to let him go, and if he had been thinking logically, he would realize that he was right.

In that moment, he wanted to strike Grant, too. In his feral state, he wanted to destroy Asher, and anyone interfering with that was his enemy.

It wasn’t until that soft voice called his name. Not in a teasing or flirtatious way, but something soft and pleading. Immediately, all his anger fled, and he wanted to embrace Willow. Take her away and soothe the fear and pain.

Kurt was in the way. He wanted to shove him aside and run to Willow, but he couldn’t. His sense had returned, and he was once again a Weaver. His mistake was colossal. It was not only against The Sunspot’s rules, but he had offended the Vega Cabal. This could be the excuse they would use to start a blood war. A flag they used to gather the other large families to their side.

More than that, he had revealed a weakness.

Roland had just shown the world that he viewed Willow as someone special to him. A chink in his armor. Roland couldn’t afford that. Not with a war looming. He had to be steadfast.

The problem was—he couldn’t.

Since the first night he entered The Sunspot to meet with a Hansen representative, he had been completely ensnared.

Willow had been dancing. It wasn’t the arousal. Although that was present, it was something more. Something in the way she smiled so cheekily. The way her gray eyes were teasing and open. Everything that Roland wasn’t.

Since that day, Roland couldn’t go a moment without thinking of the woman. It was like a drug he was slowly growing addicted to. The more he watched her dance, the more he fell hopelessly trapped. He saw the way she moved her body in his dreams and woke up achingly hard.

He never had any intention of approaching her. There were too many obvious reasons why he shouldn’t—but unexpectedly, Willow quite literally fell into his lap. Roland was suddenly presented with the object of his affections, and his brain has been a pile of mush since.

Elijah was in the car, silently waiting for his boss to finish whatever brooding he was doing. He would stay there all night if Roland asked.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to leave. He couldn’t. Not until he knew every last patron was gone and Willow was safe. Grant had discussed the details of the meeting Wallace wanted, and then they both watched as the Vegas left.

Grant kept glancing back at the bar like he wanted to go in. There was a strange look of longing on his face, but Roland watched as he shook himself of it then left.

He didn’t know how long he waited, but eventually, the door opened, and Willow exited. Surprisingly, she was alone.

She had changed and was wearing a pair of tight jeans and a baggy hoodie. Her chestnut hair was down, and even though she had obviously scrubbed her face, there was the occasional sparkle from her stage makeup. The floodlight precariously hung on the eaves of the roof caught in her eyes as she looked up in surprise.

“Oh.”

Roland noticed a slight red flush to her cheeks, and he wondered if she had been drinking.

“What are you doing?” Willow asked, stuffing her hands into the large pocket of her sweatshirt and rocking back on her heels.

“Nothing,” Roland answered truthfully. “Where is your brother?”

Willow shrugged and kicked a loose rock with her sneaker. “I never know.”