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“What’s tha meanin’ of this?” an overweight man with a thick, slurring accent blusters. His heavily-jeweled fist hits the table, shaking the ice resting in the glass before him. “Since when do we allow—” He swears. “—goomahs to waltz in here an’ ruin good liquor?”
Rowan cuts the man a look so sharp I’m surprised it doesn’t sever flesh. “Meeting adjourned,” he grumbles.
Murmurs hiss among the other members, but the rotund man gawks, half-rising. “We’re in tha middle of important business!”
Settling myself on the armrest of Rowan’s chair, I frown at the man. If my people spoke to me like that, I’d put a bullet in them.
The man leans against the table, his gut spilling over his slacks. “This is more important than your new wh—” The man’s words choke off when Rowan moves.
Wordlessly, Rowan reaches for the full tumbler of scotch in front of him—then he shatters the glass with one meager flex. Amber liquid spills around his fingers, and he flicks the fluid and glass onto the floor as he repeats, “Meeting. Adjourned.”
Red washes out of the man’s face, but he sniffs, scowls, and straightens himself. Running his hands down his shirt, he turns, muttering, as he exits with everyone but Corbin and Aster.
Corbin hands Rowan a linen napkin. “Well, that’s one way to get Granger to shut up. I’ll order a new set of glasses.”
Rowan sighs, wiping his hand, then the table. Cutting a miffed look my way, he mutters, “I told you to go home because I was busy today.”
I let my bottom lip jut. “If you’ve not already learned that I don’t listen, there’s no hope for you.”
Sagging in the large chair, Rowan rubs his left eye. “Corbin. Aster. Leave us.”
Corbin’s smile falters. “Is that really a good id—” At Rowan’s glare, he winces, goes silent, and nods.
Aster sends me a brief, worried glance before both he and Corbin leave us in the space alone. The solid doors shut, and stillness consumes the atmosphere, weighing it down like water-soaked wool. Pretending the tension couldn’t be cut with a knife, I scan the ash gray walls.
Laminated posters cover every inch, each of them outlining specific protocols, punishments, commission cuts depending on different jobs. They are remarkably thorough, lending color to the drear space.
Simply put, they look like they belong in a high school classroom, not in a room where men discuss cartels and embargoes.
I laugh when I find the very posters dictating such processes, but the sound barely has a chance to leave my throat before breath leaves my body.
Strong fingers wrap around my neck, and my back hits the wall. Pressing me to the plaster, Rowan’s hulking form cages me in.
Beyond him, my picnic basket lies askew beside his large, leather, knocked-over chair.
My heart thuds. And I am…entranced by the speed and strength, by the dark eyes glowering into mine.
Unaware, Rowan applies an ounce of pressure that cuts off my air. “This is not a game. You can’t do whatever you want in front of the men here. I don’t know how things work back at Rosanera, princess, but here, you mean nothing. You are no one’s wife or daughter. Right now, I flinch to consider how men like Granger might treat you to get at me. Make no mistake, I am biding my time with your overly dramatic schemes because I pity you. That pity will run out if you undermine my authority in front of my men. Unlike you, I couldn’t care less what’s happened to my parents. The only reason I’m even bothering to look is because I want to make sure they can’t ever come back.” His warm breath grazes my parted lips as my chest weeps for air. “Don’t think for a moment that because I don’t want to hurt you I am incapable.”
Heat flushes through me the moment he loosens his grip and lets me gulp down a breath. The inhale burns as it finds its way to my lungs. Curses slide through my brain, each harsher than the last.
Now he’s gone and done it. He’s managed to get my feelings involved.
Eff everything.
I quite like this side of him.
“Have I made myself clear?” His voice grates from between gritted teeth—vicious, steely, uncompromising.
Lifting my hands, I grip the hem of his shirt, knot my fists in the fabric, and drag him closer. Eyes lidded, I whisper a swear at him. “You are so…” I swallow, wet my lips, sneer. “…frustrating.”
His brow furrows, and a growl rumbles in his throat.
My eyes roll. “And now you think you’re some kind of beast. Intimidating men don’t sound like wild animals, pet.” Teeth bared, I stretch my neck and get as close as I can to his face. “You want to know why your own people don’t respect you?”
“I know why my own people don’t respect me.” His fist flinches around my throat, tightening accidentally, loosening forcibly.
“Pathetic,” I hiss. “You have me by the neck, and you’re making threats, yet you’re terrified you might accidentally hurt me. Why?”
