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Pulling a leather file from his briefcase, he hands it to me. When I open the file, there are several small photos paper clipped around the edges.
“What’s this?”
“The people that run his most lucrative business,” he replies.
“Sex trafficking.” Simon is practically rubbing his hands together.
“What’s in this for you?”
“Well”—he grins—“I know a man who wants his turf back. There’s a network of spas that were introduced to the East End soon after Chapman’s Soho brothels were shut down by Scotland Yard. Frustratingly, they were run by a Thai madame that took the fall along with some of her muscle, leaving Chapman to edge his way out of town.”
“What’s in it for you, though?”
“Well, this man I know has lost his business to Chapman, and he’s willing to pay well to get it back.”
“Excuse me?” Simon might be happy to get involved in shady shit outside of what we do for the Wolfsden Society, but I’m not. As far as I’m concerned, Chapman and whatever pimp he’s got on his books can rot in a ditch.
“What?” he bites back at me.
“Pardon. It’s fucking pardon,” I bark, throwing the file in my hands down on the couch. “What the fuck is wrong with people and their inability to talk properly?”
What. The word rips through me, reigniting my anger from earlier. I shouldn’t have walked away. I never walk away. But Eve’s messing with my head, and now more than ever, I shouldn’t be thinking of her. Except that fucking word put her and her maddening eyes at the forefront of my mind.
What. Fucking. What.
“Mate, you might want to shit whatever’s crawled up your arse. You’re losing the fucking plot and—”
Before he can finish, I grab the open collar of his shirt, twisting it in my fist. “I’m not your fucking pawn. I’ll do what needs to be fucking done to cover our arses, but when I’m done, I’ll fucking gut your man too.”
“At some fucking point, you’ll have to jump off your high horse,” he calls at me as I turn away.
“Every man in this world is out for themselves,” my father always told me.
He was right.
“Even the ones bound by honour and duty.”
He was right too.
Picking up the file from the couch, I head for the door.
James Sloane was always right, and I’m done thinking about honour, duty, and every other fucking thing in my way. I’m done toeing lines.
This is war. My fucking war.
CHAPTER NINE
EVE
Seven in the morning, my alarm goes off as always, except I’m wide-awake. I’ve been staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on my ceiling for hours. The sound of squealing tyres from the street racers driving doughnuts around the car park made it too easy to think about Henry’s reaction earlier. He didn’t hold back his thoughts. Didn’t even try to hide his distaste.
Getting up, I pull on the thick cardigan folded over the footboard of my bed. Before I head to the kitchen for my morning cuppa, I catch sight of the bruises around my throat. It’s not surprising, but my insides lurch at the sight. I swear I can still feel his hand wrapped around me. So tight. So strong.
“Fuck,” I groan, tracing the marks with my fingertips.
Just as he hitched his hand up my throat, I trace my neck up to my jaw. A shiver rolls through me as I swipe my thumb over my lip, raking my thumbnail over it like I’ve imagined Henry doing. And maybe…maybe I’d bite him.
Another shiver works its way through me when I suck my thumb into my mouth, watching my cheeks hollow as my body aches for something more. My lungs are burning as my breaths shallow. I’m so hot that my skin might shrink around me.
