Page 34

In which Ethan and Sloan enjoy Date Night.

Sloan…

Ethan was right, Catriona bought me three dresses, one is a dark green, strapless, and while it’s pretty, I don’t want to keep hitching it up all night. There’s a pretty black one with a wrap front that shows just enough cleavage and stops mid-thigh, that’s the one I wiggle into, brushing my hair and putting on some mascara and lip gloss.

When I step out of the bathroom, he’s lounging in a chair by the window, checking his messages. He looks gorgeous, damn him, he’s changed into a black suit with a crisp white cotton shirt. His eyes go dark as coal when he looks up at me.

“Boireannach àlainn , ya beautiful woman,” he murmurs, eyeing me appreciatively.

Flushing, I smooth down the skirt. “Yeah?”

Men have always “complimented” me, if you count golden lines like, “Your legs would look gorgeous… wrapped around my head.” But the hunger in Ethan’s black eyes is sincere, and so flattering.

“It’s a good thing ya showed me what ya were wearing, before I saw it there and ended up fucking ya in front of the entire club.” He reaches for me and I race for the elevator, laughing.

“No! You told me you were taking me out!”

I hear him growl behind me, but he takes my arm and escorts me onto the elevator.

To my surprise, Ethan holds my hand as we hit the sidewalk, leisurely strolling toward the club. I’ve never seen him relaxed like this. It’s unsettling. Aside from Patrick and another bodyguard shadowing us, it’s like a regular date.

The club is in an eight-story brick building, renovated to show off all the gorgeous gothic-style windows with a line of partygoers that wraps around the block. Spotlights are flashing, bouncing off nearby buildings and sending a beam into the night sky, like Batman’s. The people waiting to get in grumble as we walk past them but they shut up instantly from a glare from the bouncer at the stand.

Still gripping my hand, Ethan leads me through the crowd on the first floor, glaring at anyone who dares to get too close. There’s an elevator near the back guarded by another bouncer dressed in black.

“Mr. MacTavish, a pleasure to see ya tonight,” he nods his head respectfully.

“Thank ya, Kevin. This is my bonnie bride, Sloan.”

“Ma’am, nice to meet ya,” he says, escorting us onto the elevator. It swoops up to the rooftop and when I step out, Edinburgh gleams in all its night-time glory on one side, and the Atlantic Ocean glimmers under the moonlight on the other.

The rooftop is lined with potted trees and banks of flowers laced with white lights. The bar in the far end is an enormous old wooden monstrosity with four bartenders racing back and forth, flipping bottles and flirting with the guests. The stage is set up for optimal viewing wherever you happen to be, and the band is belting their way through one of my favorites, “I Think I’m Paranoid” and I scream with excitement, pulling Ethan toward the dance floor.

He can dance. Of course, he can, because there is apparently nothing Ethan can’t do well. He’s pulled off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of that white dress shirt and his muscular forearms and all those colorful tattoos just make him hotter. It takes me a minute to realize that he’s cleared a perimeter around us, and when one flailing, thrashing guy gets too close, Ethan puts out his arm and clothes-lines the poor man.

“No one’s gettin’ near your ribs, baby,” he says sternly. My ribs are a little sore, but I’m having fun, completely carefree fun and I ignore the ache.

There is no end to the hotness of my new husband. And tonight? I’m kind of enjoying flaunting it. When girls dance too close, eyeing him hungrily, I make sure both of our wedding rings are visible until they give up. I didn’t think he noticed until I glared away the third interloper.

“You’ve no reason to be jealous, baby.” He nuzzles kisses on my neck until I giggle.

“I have to use the bathroom,” I say, “is there one on this level?”

“Aye, I’ll walk ya over.”

There’s a line to get in, not much of one but all the girls stop chatting and fussing with their hair to stare at my gigantic Scotsman. “I can find my way back to the bar,” I say. “Really, you don’t need to stick around.”

His full lips twitch as he glances at the staring gaggle of girls and he kisses the top of my head. “I’ll check my messages in the hall, then.”

“He’s a fine-looking one,” the girl in front of me says, staring at his broad back. “Well done, sister.”

I’m torn between laughing and snorting and something comes out that sounds like both. “He is,” I agree.

After making my way out of the bathroom, I get turned around a bit, heading the wrong way down the hall. I’m about to give up and turn the other way when I see a couple in front of me. She’s staggering on her high heels and she can’t quite keep her head up.

“Hey, do you need help?” I recognize the signs, she looks drugged, not drunk. We were taught what to look for at Club Vice, though you’d have to be suicidal to slip a dose of ketamine to anyone in a Mafia club. The few who tried it weren’t just thrown out; they lost all their fingers first. At least, I think it was just their fingers.

Speeding up, I try to catch them before they make it to the back staircase.

“Hey!”

The girl lifts her head and I see her bloodshot, vacant eyes. The man is older, maybe late forties with a clenched jaw and a tight grip on the girl. He’s not happy to see me.

“Can I help you?” I ask, trying to step between them, “Because you don't look well, my friend.”

“Sod off.” The man steps closer and I’m mildly nauseated by the stench of cigarette smoke and body odor. “This is my girlfriend, she’s just had too much to drink.”

“I’m not talking to you,” I snarl. It occurs to me that this would be a good time to have Ethan’s reassuring presence, but I don’t dare go back for him. I don’t know this club well enough and I could lose them. “Hey, I'm Sloan, what’s your name?”

“I…” she’s swaying, trying to focus on me. “I’m Ste…” she dies off, looking confused.

“I think you should come with me,” I say, “let’s get you looked at.”

“She’s fine, ya fecking bitch! Feck off before I make ya,” the man hisses, stepping so close that his rancid breath washes across my face.

Reaching around him, I take her hand. “I’m a MacTavish. Do you know who they are, you sleazy fuck? They own this club. Now why don’t you scamper off before I get to enjoy watching them slice off your fucking fingers.” We’re in a bizarre game of tug-of-war with the poor girl in the middle.

He pauses for a moment before gripping her arm hard enough to make her yelp. “I will stab ya in the throat if you don’t feck off, ya stupid cunt.” He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a switchblade. It’s time to scream, as loud as I can but I won’t let go of her hand.

I swear the floor shakes as someone comes storming up to us and a fist flies past my head, connecting with the asshole’s nose. Barely catching the girl as his hand is ripped loose, I get my arms around her, teetering under her weight.

“Motherfucker. Ya put your hands on my wife?” Ethan hits him again, the blood spurting from the man’s mouth a couple of teeth flying loose as he flies backward.

“Ma’am, I’ve got her, let’s go back, aye?” Patrick slides his arm around the girl’s waist, holding her up as her legs buckle. I’m still clutching her hand, staring at my husband dismantling the rapist fuck with lightning-fast, merciless blows. His eyes are pitch black, his expression cold and determined as he hauls the man off the floor and punches him in the kidney, making him drop his knife.

Ethan kicks it aside. “Ya drew a knife on my woman?”

“He drugged this girl,” I say hastily, “he was trying to pull her out of the club.” Ethan briefly glances at her before hitting the man hard enough that I swear I could hear his ribs crack.

“Bringing K into our club?” Ethan lifts the man with his hand around his throat, his shoes flying off his jittering feet as he grips Ethan’s wrist, choking. “What was your plan, ya pathetic feck? Take this girl away and rape her? Not man enough to get the girl unless ya drug her first?”

Patrick’s trying to usher me away, but I can’t stop watching this intimidating stranger that I’m married to, pummeling the man until he’s a bag of blood and bones on the floor. Ethan looks up, his eyes blazing and I should be terrified. His hands are covered in blood and there’s a spray of it marring his pristine white shirt.

“Take this prick out the back,” he instructs Patrick, and our other bodyguard hurries over to pick up the girl, who’s passed out.

“Where are we taking her?” I whisper, my mouth dry.

“James here is going to take her to an office downstairs, we have a nurse on call. They’ll make sure the dosage isn’t going to do more damage and then contact her people.”

Patrick’s the one explaining this because Ethan’s still looking down at the bloody mess that used to be a rapist piece of shit, his hands curling into fists. The fury in his expression transforms him into a blood-soaked demon.

And I have never been so turned on in my life.

“Are ya okay, love?” He blinks and seems to come back online, looking at me with concern. “Did he hurt ya?”

I don’t care that Patrick and James are staring at us, I step forward, grab his shirt and kiss him, greedily, hungrily, desperately, hoping he understands without me having to say it.

He does.