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No. One. Fucks. With. Amara.
I screech to a halt at the entrance to the hotel’s bar. Killian stops right at my side.
Searching for her for one second. Mesmerized by her the next.
Our blond beauty in a yellow dress is a beacon of light in our dimly lit hotel. As always. She occupies one of the black leather high stools at the black and gold marble bar, snarling.
Fucking snarling.
With her arms hugging the black vase with purple lilies I recognize from our penthouse, she snarls at Christopher. One of the most feared hitmen on the East Coast. Her lips are curled in disgust a moment longer, then she turns to Jamey, our bartender.
She’s ignoring Christopher while he’s yapping in her ear and while his hand rises to her hair.
Pride swells in my heart. Rage is quick to follow.
“Rule number two,” I hiss, hearing Kill’s shoes on the marble floor less than a foot beside me. “We’re entitled to hurt him.”
We’re on the move.
“What do you say, then? Come over to my loft? This bouquet is wasted in this place.” His repulsive fingers grab one of our lilies, tucking it behind her ear. I hear Killian growl. Or maybe it’s me. “It’ll look so much better in my bedroom. So will you.”
“Never.” Amara spins to glare at him, swatting his hand off as if he’s a pesky bug. Just as fast, her eyes return to Jamey.
She won’t have to fend for herself much longer.
Jamey slides his hand under his suit jacket to his holster.
Ten steps.
Ten, long motherfucking steps.
“On second thought, what are you even doing here in the first place? These flowers don’t match this hotel. And you’re here on a weekend.” He studies her annoyed profile. Cyclone burns hot in my palm. “You’re here to fuck one of the owners, aren’t you? Which is it? The dad or the son?”
“Miss Carmichael.” Killian and I come to a halt behind Amara and Christopher’s stools. His eyes are hot on Amara. “You’re here for us, I believe. And these are the flowers we asked you to bring over.”
“Christopher,” I address him, placing my hand possessively on her shoulder. Showing everyone she’s important to us. As our supplier, of course. “I hope you’re not doing what I think you’re doing.”
“Nice of you to join us.” His pale blue eyes are mad and violent. His smile sickens me. “Carter. Killian.”
“I’m always here.” I flash him my psycho smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Always. And I hate—fucking loathe—it when our members break our rules.”
“Well, what can I say? She’s been asking for it.” He shrugs. “Playing hard to get. A needy bitch like the rest of them.”
God himself couldn’t stop me now. I leave Amara’s side. One of my hands curls viciously around Christopher’s throat. He barely has a chance to lift his hands to fend me off when my other hand makes a fist around his cornflower blue tie. And yanks on it.
“Mr. Steele, Mr. Murdock.” Amara’s voice is sheer happiness. Glee, even, despite the way Christopher chokes in my hold. “I brought over the lilies you asked for.”
My gaze flicks behind me. Zoning in on her smiling face. Genuine joy pours from her.
The sight gives me a glimmer of hope. She might accept us. The nature of our business. The things we do.
Christopher fights me, but I’m hardly done watching Amara. Another emotion appears in her eyes. I need another second to study her, so Christopher will have to be subdued in the meantime. I kick away the stool he’s sitting on, twist his tie to his back, and hold the shorter man like a dog on a leash.
“Carter,” he chokes out.
Our Amara is sad. That’s what I couldn’t figure out.
The guy I’m choking isn’t responsible for it. He annoyed her. Made me want to burn his face with acid. But he didn’t put the hopeless look in her eyes.
