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“Fuck you.”
“That again.” Carter rolls his eyes, sighing dramatically. “Ugh. He’s no fun. I’m bored. Can we go now, Dad?”
Brat.
He’s going to cry later. He’ll cry. He’ll weep. And I’ll lick each and every tear.
“A moment,” I say in a flat voice that doesn’t betray my devious plans.
“What?” Porter spits out.
“We won’t kill you.” Once I hover over the concierge’s stand, I glare at the squirming Porter. “Won’t kill them, either. As long as you let us through without alerting anyone. What will it be?”
“It’ll be a no.”
“Have it your way.” Carter is quick to lift his hand, curl his fingers into a fist, and land a punch into Porter’s cheek.
The sound of bones cracking has Carter wagging his eyebrows at me. I smile back because I can’t not smile at his playfulness.
Porter’s eyes roll in the back of his head, and he’s out. Fainted.
Carter winks, choking Porter just to make sure he’ll stay out. After that, he pushes Porter beneath the desk until there’s no sign the man’s ever been here.
“He should be out for the next ten minutes. Fifteen tops.” Carter shoves his knife into the back pocket of his pants. “Let’s make them count.”
We head to the elevators. I punch the code we extracted from Amara’s phone while she was sleeping. There’s no tension between Carter and me on the way up. Just a sense of readiness. Righteousness. Eagerness to pounce.
We’re two predators. Two protectors.
Two killers, if that’s what it’ll take.
Ding.
The elevator doors to Amara’s family penthouse open.
“Melina, honey, is that you?” A woman calls, the barest hint of affection slithering into her voice. “You’re here early. What a pleasant surprise.”
Must be her mom. I imagine Amara has never been on the receiving end of the woman’s affection. A new wave of wrath ripples through me. Bleeding from my every pore. Carter’s at my side, the same hatred pouring from him too.
We prowl forward from the foyer as I hear her heels clicking in our direction.
“Melina?” The woman I assume to be Elora Carmichael appears in the hallway.
It takes me a second to look her over. Blond hair and brown eyes that look so much like Amara’s, though that’s where their similarities end. Where Amara is a ray of sunshine, her mother is cold and detached. Beautiful in her thousand-dollar cream pantsuit and matching heels, but cold.
I see the moment she realizes the two men in black suits in her home are intruders.
“Ahh!” she screams, her howl pathetic as fuck. “Case! Come here! Help!”
With us here, threatening them, their money means shit. The high ceilings, the pristine white sofas, the furniture that no doubt cost a fortune, the solid hardwood floors. None of it will help them.
Elora’s quivering chin and angry tears tell us she motherfucking knows her fate is in our hands.
More pathetic shrills ensue. Trembling legs. Wide, terrified eyes.
Nothing like our feral Amara.
Amara would’ve charged at us. Would’ve faced us without batting an eye. She did it before. I have no doubt she would’ve done it again.
