Page 49 of No Knight (My Kind of Hero #3)

Matt

Fucking Theta.

I hate that my instincts were on point. That I was right about them and her prick of an ex.

I pull out my phone as I thunder along the street, my mood as black as the clouds overhead.

I should’ve looked into this earlier, but I’ve been so caught up with work.

And with her. Maybe I could’ve done something, mitigated the damage.

Though would she have wanted to still work there?

I know the answer to that would be Fuck no .

It’s so fucking wrong. Gender bias. Pay imbalances. Glass ceilings. Harassment and discrimination. The finance world is like a boys’ club, and the proof is in the conversation I just had with Theta’s CFO.

According to him, it seems news of Ryan’s transfer to London—and her effective promotion—reached the ears of her weasel of an ex.

Because that fucker took time out of his day to have lunch with the fund manager of Theta’s New York office, then pretty much destroyed her character over prime rib at the Grill.

And bad news travels fast, whether it’s true or not, because people just love to share the misfortunes of others.

Well, fuck them, which is pretty much how our conversation concluded.

And fuck you, Nigel. You’ve crossed the wrong man.

Not only have they lost a valuable asset, but they’ve also pissed off the man standing behind her.

I press a button, and the call connects.

“Matías.” Oliver’s cut-glass tone echoes down the line.

“You know how we’re looking for collab partners for the North 1 project?” A mixed-use urban redevelopment in Manchester. We’re diversifying our partners. Looking for new ones, basically.

“Yes.” His one-word answer sounds pretty suspicious.

“Well, Theta isn’t it.”

“According to the feedback I received from Nigel, they’re very interested.”

“Is that Nigel, the CFO?”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“That’d be the fella I just told to stick his dick in his ear.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I believe I implied— no . Actually, implied isn’t a strong enough word. I instructed the spineless arsehole to stick his dick in his fucking lughole to see if he could shag some fucking sense into his own head!”

“And is there any reason you’re yelling that at me?”

“Sorry, no. I’m just fucked off. Annoyed.” I rake my hand through my hair when what I want to do is punch something. Someone. Preferably the man at the root of all this.

“Understood. Well, I suppose I’ll inform Andrew to strike them from the list.”

“Probably for the best.”

“Are we removing them from one list and adding them to another?”

“What other list?”

“The ‘hurt-my-woman-and-I’ll-fuck-up-your-world list,’ I suppose we can call it. Or perhaps the ‘list of destruction’? Yes, I prefer that.”

“Why, Oliver,” I begin, my footsteps slowing and my lips tipping upward, equally as slowly. “You sentimental old ...”

“Less of the old , thank you.”

“Is this what the love of a good woman does to a man?” My smile, there’s no reining it in now. “I thought it was supposed to make you soft.”

“Soft with them, Matías. Ruthless with everyone else. And if anyone crosses them, hurts them. Well, then we rain down hell.”

I don’t answer. The man hit the nail on the head.

“And then, of course, there are the times we hurt them. Usually with our egos. Then we do what we can, what we must, to make it up to them. I don’t suppose I have to tell you that.”

I give a long sigh and catch sight of myself in a nearby window.

I look like a mad fucker, my hair standing on end, like the kind of person you dread sitting next to you on the bus.

Not that I’ve been on a bus in a while. And why do I look like a mad bus-riding vagrant?

Because someone slighted Ryan and because I want to fucking crush them.

But that’s about me, like Fin said. It’s about my ego, not hers. And the thing I’ve been preparing for? The thing I said I wouldn’t do without her say-so? I might’ve already changed my mind.

“I will say that I have a particularly tender spot for men who mistreat the women they once claimed to love,” Oliver then says.

“You do, do you?”

“Yes. A particularly tender spot I like to hurt them.”

“That sounds like dirty fighting.”

“I meant their wallets, Matías.”

“Of course you did. No common thuggery for you.” Leave that to me, I think, pressing my phone between my ear and shoulder as I crack my tense knuckles. I recall a beating I administered without her knowledge. Or say-so. “We can’t have your ancestors turning in their graves, now can we?”

“Mausoleum.”

“Of course.” I roll my eyes and set off walking to the car again. “How silly of me to think they’d be put in common ground.”

“I have things to do, Matías. Are we adding Theta to the list and waging war on hedge funds on two continents?”

“Not Theta,” I say. I think Nigel might think twice now before believing industry gossip. My ego can calm the fuck down.

“Understood,” he murmurs. “It’s been a while since I ruined someone’s livelihood.”

“You sound like you’re looking forward to it.”

“This is not my play, Matías. But I wish you good fortune in your endeavors. Though I will say we are yet to meet the lady in question. The reason for all this.”

“Yeah, I know. Soon,” I add, almost crossing the fingers of my right hand.

“Not that I’d add undue pressure, but I might suggest you step up your security before Fin turns up on your doorstep.”

I chuckle. The golden retriever of our pack. Well, he’s not shagging my leg.

“It’s just a question of time. Ryan’s had a lot of adjustments to make.”

Or am I just making excuses for her?

“This wine is delicious.” Ryan sets down her glass and leans back in her chair, arching the small of her back a touch.

“I ordered it from Oliver’s wine merchant,” I say, trying not to let my mind drift back a couple of weeks at the tiny reminder. She looked so luscious draped across the counter, all dark eyed and replete.

I hope to God it isn’t long before I can taste her again. To hold her in my arms as we look forward to our future together.

“The fella said you can get pretty decent nonalcoholic varieties of wine these days.” Which is total shite, because the man wanked on and on about alcohol being needed to soften the tannins and smooth out acidity.

He might also have bemoaned the “diabolical effect the process has on the mouthfeel.” Christ, I wanted to feel his mouth with my fist by the time he shut up.

But I digress.

It’s date night. At least, it is in my mind. Though the number per week is still mandated— nay, controlled —by my lovely companion, I look forward to these evenings over anything else.

A delicious meal, at home, of course, because anything outside these four walls might be misconstrued by the rest of the world. Little does she know we’ve been having romantic rendezvous at this table for months, and not just that time I pressed her to the countertop and ate her out.

God, I’m such a romantic.

But if we don’t have romance, at least we have sex. Sort of. Or maybe that’s just me, given I’ve taken to wanking myself half to death when she leaves to go back to her tiny apartment.

Tonight will be no different, I consider, as I allow my eyes to roam over her.

She’s so fucking beautiful. Bountiful is the word that springs to mind, not that I’d say it out loud because she’d probably misconstrue it as a variant of large .

Even if her breasts are—no word of a lie—huge. Magnificent, even.

Her body is so much fuller this month. She’s like a peach I want to sink my teeth into. In short, she makes my mouth water.

“How was your day?” Dear, I add mentally. Mi mujer. Mi amor.

“Fine.” Her gaze slides to the table, where she moves her napkin an inch to the side. “I did a little research. Looking at a couple of new opportunities.”

“Work or investments?”

At this, her gaze lifts. “Work is dead in the water.”

“A temporary thing.”

“Can’t make connections in the UK. And I can’t get my US connections to play ball.”

“It’ll all work out in the end.”

“It better,” she mutters.

“How’s your portfolio going?”

“Looking for tips?” She gives a humorous twist to her lips.

“Always.” God, I love it when she wears her hair down, I think with a happy sigh, watching how it curls softly around her shoulders. I also love finding her hair ties dotted around the house. It’s like the Ryan version of a “Hansel and Gretel” breadcrumb trail.

“I’m up double figures.”

“And that’s why it’ll work out,” I say, pointing her way, my other fingers still wrapped around my glass.

“Thanks, Matt.”

“What for? It’s the truth. Who could resist those figures?”

Or that figure. Her outfit a soft gray woolen two-piece—ribbed for her comfort, not for my viewing pleasure, though I’m enjoying the vista just the same.

Square necked and sleeveless, her dress clings to her body like a sheath, all the way to her ankles.

Her arms and shoulders are covered by a matching and very cute little-old-lady-style cardigan.

It looks kinda like an old-fashioned bed jacket, rounded at the edges and joined at the neck by a ribbon tied in a bow.

How the hell do I know what a bed jacket looks like? No idea. But I’d like to see it on my bedroom floor. And that ribbon ... Open me, it seems to taunt. Pull on my end!

I wish Ryan would—

Fucking brain. I discreetly adjust myself under the table. I’m definitely losing my marbles. By the day, it seems.

Ryan reaches for her glass again, holds it up to the light, and says something. Something about the wine, probably. I don’t know exactly what, my attention still pinned to that bow and all that lovely cleavage and the now you see it, now you don’t effect.

Fuck, how I ache to get my hands on her.

“Are you done?”

That I hear, though it’s more the tone that pulls me from my musing. Perving? Anyway, I lift my gaze to her very pointed one, but not without noting how glossy her lips look.

Did she just lick them?