Page 60 of Stolen Rebel

I shrug. “In hindsight, I should’ve approached things differently.”

I keep my attention on the road, but I swear she smiles. Barely, but a smile all the same. “Darragh was right.”

My skin prickles, jealousy circling my gut. I can’t bear to hear another man’s name on her lips, even if it is my brother’s.

“What about?”

“That you never apologize.”

I grunt. Fucking Darragh. Should’ve knocked his fucking teeth out. Wouldn’t be a pretty boy who has women circling him like flies round shite then.

Apologies are a weakness. Besides, anyone can spit out an “I’m sorry” and not mean it. I prefer to let my actions speak for me.

We lapse into silence, but that smirk stays on her lips as though she thinks she’s won a prize. Except I’m the one who has won the prize. Just to see her smile is like winning the fucking lottery. I’ve missed it. Missed her. She was always laughing, smiling, having fun, taking risks. Doing some kind of crazy shit like bungee jumping or diving into the water off a high cliff in the middle of winter.

I want that woman back. All I need to do is to get her to trust me and the dam will break.

The warehouse comes into view. I pull up outside the only entrance and cut the engine. Rebel isn’t smiling anymore. She’s frozen, wide-eyed, gaze locked on the formidable-looking building standing alone in the middle of nowhere. “Where are we?”

Slotting the keys in my pocket, I push down on the door handle. “Come on.”

She’s slow to follow. I wait, hands in pockets, expression smooth even though patience is something I have to work at rather than a trait that comes naturally. I hold out my hand. She stares at it for about five seconds then takes it.

Progress. I call that progress. “You’re not in any danger.”

“Then why am I here?”

“To witness something.”

She frowns. “Witness what?”

“That however powerful and frightening you believe this fucker Brian to be, I’m more powerful and more frightening.”

“I-I don’t understand.”

I suppose there’s no harm in relaying what Sorcha told me. “Sorcha seems to have it in her head that you’re keeping up this Erin shite because you think you’re protecting me, and now I know about Brian, I’m gonna hazard a guess that it’s him you’re trying to protect me from. I’m here to prove that it’s he who should fear me, not the other way around.”

Her lips part and stay there, like she had the words but then they vanished.

“Shall we go?”

Her throat works as she swallows. Once, twice, a third time. When she still says nothing in response to my revelation, I tow her inside. The warehouse is dim save for a bare bulb hanging on a low wire on the far side, but there’s enough light from a couple of high windows for us to see without tripping over. Three of our soldiers guard a man slumped over and tied to a chair. They turn in succession, and one breaks away from the group.

“Boss.”

I’m not the boss. Patrick is. But in his absence, I represent my family and, as such, it’s an acceptable greeting. I never have liked underboss. “Domhnall. All good?”

“Yeah. No trouble.” He pays no attention to Rebel, his gaze on me. The man knows his place. He also knows I’d pluck out his eyes if he dared to look at her.

“Who is that?” Rebel presses closer to my side, her eyes fixated on Fergal sitting slumped in a chair.

“A traitor.” I slide an arm around her waist. Christ, that feels good.

“What’s going to happen to him?”

I level her with a stare. She immediately gets my drift. I watch her for signs she’s about to bolt, which would render my lesson moot.

“What did he do?”