Page 65 of Stolen Rebel

My nostrils flare. I stare at her for a long time, processing.

“Please don’t be mad. I never expected to see you again.”

I should reassure her that I’m not mad, except I am. Not at her, but I can’t trust myself to speak right now. I need intel, and I need it fast. I get out of the bed and stuff my feet into my boots, bending to lace them up.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yeah.” My voice is gruff. A streak of hurt races across her face. “I have some things to take care of.”

I click the door shut behind me and make for the stairs. Time to get some answers.

Chapter 30

LIAM

My blood is a volcano of lava and ash as I beeline for Patrick’s office, my mind racing with questions and no fucking answers. This Brian cunt. What’s his fucking angle? Why did he yank Rowan from her life, from me? And what does that have to do with this so-called dossier of information. As a gard, the fact he’s collecting intel on us is interesting. It tells me he’s too low down the command chain to realize anything he collects will be buried by the higher-ups. Which also tells me he isn’t acting on orders.

He’s had his dick in my woman. When I catch up to him, he’ll regret all his life choices, but especially that one.

I mentally make a list of what I know.

I have a first name and his occupation. But the most valuable piece of information she gave me? They were in school at the same time. Which means there’s a paper trail. School records, social media accounts, maybe a yearbook or newspaper clippings. And if the public records don’t give me what I want, there are always the private ones.

Downstairs, I almost trip over the dog who’s sprawled out in the hallway. “Fuck’s sake,” I mutter.

Titan growls as though to say, “It’s your fault, dickhead.”

That she’s right is neither here nor there.

I step over her and nudge open Patrick’s office door. He’s at his desk, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, glasses perched on the end of his nose. He glances up when I enter.

“Need a favor.” I close the door behind me.

He takes off his glasses and puts them down then leans back, giving me his full attention. “What kind?”

“The kind that needs Darragh’s particular skill set.” Our youngest brother might be a pain in my hole most days, but when it comes to digital forensics and making databases cough up information protected by privacy laws, he’s a fucking artist.

Patrick’s eyebrows lift. “This about your woman?”

I don’t correct him. Everyone in this house knows Rowan is my woman even if I haven’t come right out and admitted it. “Yeah.”

I reel off what Rowan shared, including this little pissant’s attempts to gather intel. Patrick listens, throwing in the odd “hmm” and a nod or two but, notably, he doesn’t flinch. Then again, my brother is great at poker.

“And?”

I frown. “What do you mean ‘and’?”

“What else is chapping your arse?”

Having a brother who has an uncanny and inconvenient way of reading my mind is fucking inconvenient.

“She refused to give me his surname. Told me to leave it. That she can handle him. Even now, she’s still protecting this guy over spilling every fucking bean. She’s putting him first.” Something hot and ugly and violent twists in my gut.

“You haven’t exactly made it easy for her to talk to you.”

I grind my teeth. “Whose fucking side are you on?”

“Yours. But I know you, brother. You’ve enjoyed keeping her as your little prisoner. Keeping her just the right side of scared. You’ve loved the control. Admit it.”