Page 58 of Stolen Rival (The Stolen #1)

LIAM

“Fancy a drink before you head back to Ireland?”

Shifting the sleeve on my jacket, I check my watch. Three hours before I have to be at the airport. “I’ve got time for a swift one.”

Kai, one of our captains and an old friend from my school days, grins and beelines for the pub across the road.

The smell of stale beer hits me in the face the second we enter.

Inside, it’s a typical old-fashioned English pub with pint glasses hanging over the bar and horse brasses nailed to the stone walls.

It’s pretty busy considering the time of day, the bar propped up by men stinking of cigarettes and regret. Considering we’re in a run-down part of London, it isn’t all that surprising. The last job most of these guys probably had was a paper round.

I shoulder my way between two men, one of whom glares at me until he cops the vicious scar running from my temple to my lip and the daring in my eyes. Muttering something under his breath, he swipes his pint off the bar and shuffles off to a table in the corner next to two men playing draughts.

“What’ll you have?” a bartender asks, wiping beer spillage from the weathered wooden bar.

“Pint of lager for me,” Kai says. “Guinness?”

I shake my head. “It’s fucking swill outside of Ireland. I’ll have a whiskey.”

The bartender arches a brow. “Would that be a Scottish whisky?” His lips quirk up but fall pretty quickly when I glare at him.

“Sure, if you want to have the fat end of the bottle rammed up your fat arse.”

Kai snickers. The bartender ducks his head, avoiding my gaze, and pours me three fingers from a bottle of Irish single malt. I toss a twenty on the bar, pick up my glass, and head for a table away from the door. After wiping crisp crumbs onto the threadbare carpet, I sit.

“You enjoy that, don’t you?”

I sip my drink, appreciating the warmth from the liquid that slides down my throat. “You know how to pick ’em.”

He chuckles. “Better a traditional pub than one of those shite modern venues that are taking over London faster than a plague of locusts hoovers up a field of wheat.”

I grunt my agreement. London isn’t what it once was. Some call it progress. I call it a damn fucking shame. For me, it’s lost its heart, sold its soul to big business and glossy skyscrapers.

“Today went well.”

“Well enough. Don’t think we’ll have anymore trouble from our little friend.”

My brother, Patrick, had sent me over to England to redraw a line in the sand that shouldn’t have needed drawing in the first place.

Part of the problem of expanding our territory is the growth of idiots who think we’re spread too thin.

Chancers who figure we’ll have taken our eye off the ball and decide to shave off a slice of the pie for themselves.

The prick from the meeting I just left will have trouble shaving his fucking face with a few missing fingers.

“Nothing like sending a message.”

“Yep.” I knock back the rest of my drink.

“Another?”

“Why not.”

Kai returns with another round, then disappears to the bathroom. I slide my phone from my pocket and send Patrick an encrypted text. He doesn’t answer, and I didn’t expect him to, but a check-in is a normal part of our procedures.

A feeling of being watched has me raising my head. The guy I barged earlier is staring, but as soon as our eyes meet, he looks away. Smirking, I shift my attention to the bar. The bartender who served us is talking to a woman with her back to me.

I run my gaze over her. She’s tall, narrow waisted, and long limbed. Dark wavy hair snakes down her back, and the way she’s got her hands planted on her hips tells me she’s either irritated or frustrated with whatever he’s saying to her.

She nods, then pivots and snatches up a cloth. As she raises her head, shock rolls through me.

Rowan “Rebel” Byrne. What the fuck?

Blinding hot rage careens through my veins, and my hand tightens around the half-drunk glass of whiskey. Eight years. Eight fucking years since I last saw this woman’s traitorous face, and she’s just going about her business without a fucking care in the world.

Almost instinctively, I touch the gnarly scar running down the length of my face, and the back injury I suffered after being beaten almost to death flares up.

For years I searched for her, the need for vengeance eating me up until there was nothing left other than a husk of a man who fell in love when he was too young and stupid to realize he was being played for a fucking mug.

I down the last of my drink and get to my feet.

As I approach the bar, she gives me a cursory glance, then turns away, reaching above her head for a pint glass.

Her purple T-shirt rises up, giving me a glimpse of tanned skin and toned abs.

My stupid, brainless dick twitches. If Rowan’s betrayal taught me anything, it’s that I should never listen to my cock.

Moving to the far end, she holds the glass at an angle and pulls on one of the pumps. Dark ale spurts into the glass. My eyes burn holes in the side of her face, but if she realizes I’m sending a hate-filled gaze her way, she doesn’t react.

She sets the pint of beer on the bar and holds out her hand for payment. The guy passes a note across the bar. Ringing up the sale, she counts out his change and drops the coins into his waiting palm.

There’s no one else waiting other than me. She travels the length of the bar, a fake smile fixed in place as she approaches.

“Hi there. What can I get you?”

A flawless face. A whole heart. The young guy who believed in fucking fairytales and happy ever afters.

“You’ve got some fucking nerve.”

She blinks several times in a row, her forehead wrinkling. “Excuse me?”

I slam my glass on the bar, drawing the attention of a couple of people nearby. No one will intervene. The lethal vibes pouring off me will stop any have-a-go-heroes from finding their spine.

“Tell me, Rebel, what did they pay you to rat me out?” I almost flinch at using the nickname we used to laugh about. A nickname she earned in school for always getting into some kind of trouble.

A frown draws her eyebrows together, except her innocent confused act isn’t fooling me.

“Rebel? I’m sorry, but you’ve got the wrong person. My name’s Erin.”

Erin. Good one. “Don’t fucking play games with me. You’ll lose.”

She takes two steps back, only stopping when her spine hits the other side of the bar behind her. “I think you should leave.”

“Not without you.”

“I’m going nowhere with you. You’re insane. If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the police.”

A slow, menacing smile tugs my lips upward, except I’ve looked at my ruined face for long enough to know it’s uneven, the scar running through my top lip responsible for my lopsided grin.

“You had a good run, Rebel. Eight years. More than most who cross me would get. Time’s up, sweetheart. It’s time to pay the price for fucking me over.”

Her bottom lip trembles, and she swallows. I track the movement of her throat, envisaging my hand wrapping around her slender neck. One quick snap and it’s bye-bye traitor.

Except… where’s the fun in that.

I glance behind me. Kai is at our table watching my exchange, an intrigued expression on his face. He doesn’t know who she is. No one does, not even my brothers. She was my guilty secret, my hidden liaison, the only woman I’ve ever loved, and more fucking fool me.

Returning my attention to her once more, I snap out a hand and capture her wrist. She yanks her arm up, but she’s wasting her time.

Now I’ve finally caught her, I’m not letting her go.

Not until she’s paid for every bruise, every broken bone, every stitch that knitted together the gaping hole in my face.

“Don’t even think about running. There’s nowhere to go. Now be a good girl and go and tell your man over there that you’re quitting.”

She licks her lips, another swallow drawing my eye. I’d kissed that neck a hundred times. Now I’m having trouble stopping myself from taking a knife to it, slicing her open, and watching as her blood spilled out and her life drained from her.

“Why would I do that?” she whispers.

“Because you’re coming back to Ireland with me.”

She shakes her head. “You’ve got the wrong girl.”

I draw her hand toward me, pressing a kiss to her palm. She visibly shudders. I repulse her. Good. That plays directly into my hands.

“We both know that’s a lie.”

“It isn’t. I swear, on my life.”

“Your word isn’t worth the shite on my shoe. You’re mine now. Stop fighting the inevitable. It’s a waste of energy, and trust me, you’re going to need all the energy you can get to survive what I have planned.”

A whimper spills out of her. “And what is that?”

My mouth twists into something dark and malicious. “Vengeance.”

Thank you so much for reading Stolen Rival.