Page 25 of Stealing Cinder

Edgar is too drunk or focused on me to notice.

"If you wanted a quick fuck, why didn't you bring a plus one?" Edgar straightens his cuffs and takes a sip of bourbon. "It's not nice to fuck your friend's hired help."

Edgar's voice is casual. Conversational. He sips on his bourbon while Cinder hauls herself upright on the banister, knuckles white against the dark wood.

The wig catches on the railing's edge and peels back. Pale blonde hair spills free, bright under the foyer light.

Edgar's bourbon stops halfway to his lips. His eyes lock onto the blonde hair, the face beneath the cheap wig, and the casual arrogance drains from his expression. What replaces it is colder. Harder.

"Cinder." Her name leaves his mouth like a curse. His jaw works side to side, the muscles in his neck pulling taut.

He sets the bourbon on the banister with deliberate care, the crystal clicking against the walnut. His gaze follows hers to the Beretta under the chest of drawers.

“You sneaky little bitch." His eyes snap back to her face. He grabs the glass again, and I strike.

I grab Edgar by the throat.

My fingers close around his windpipe and I compress until the bourbon glass slips from his hand and shatters against the hardwood. Crystal shards scatter across the floor and the sharp smell of alcohol cuts through the cigar smoke. His face goes from pale to crimson in three seconds. His feet scrabble against the floor, dress shoes sliding on wet wood and broken glass.

"Apologize to the lady."

His lips peel back. Spit hits my wrist. Veins bulge at his temples and the red deepens to purple along his cheekbones.

"Never." The word grinds out between compressed vocal cords. "She's as filthy and useless as her father." His bloodshot eyes swing to Cinder who has come to stand at my side. "Whores like her belong in the kitchen or dead like her father. I'll deal with you in a minute."

Cinder’s spine straightens. She yanks the wig fully off and tosses it aside. Blue fire blazes in those pale eyes, the silver sheen burning hot under the light.

"Fuck. You. Edgar."

She moves faster than I can track.

One second she is behind me. The next, the weight of my Glock is gone from my shoulder holster and she presses the muzzle against Edgar's forehead. Her thumb cocks the hammer and the click echoes through the foyer.

Fuck.

This is going to get messy.

Cinder's finger rests alongside the trigger guard. Not on the trigger. Beside it. The discipline of that placement sends a cold thread through the heat of my fury. She knows her way around a firearm. Her arm is steady. Her breathing is controlled.

She’s practiced for this moment.

An unspoken exchange passes between her and Edgar. His bloodshot eyes lock onto hers and for three seconds, something raw and personal crackles in the air between them. History. Hatred.

Edgar's upper lip curls and Cinder's nostrils flare.

I release Edgar's throat and drive my fist into his face.

Bone meets bone. The impact travels up my arm and the crunch of cartilage under my fist is loud, wet, satisfying. Edgar's head snaps sideways. Blood sprays from his nose across the hardwood in a fine arc and his knees buckle. He grabs the banister to keep himself upright, smearing red across the wooden grain.

My left hand reaches back, finds my Glock in Cinder's grip, and pulls it free. I uncock the hammer and shove it back into my shoulder holster, snapping the strap closed.

"We will talk about touching another person's gun later." I keep my eyes on Edgar. "And I mean it."

Cinder's chin jerks up but she says nothing. Smart woman. This is not the time.

Edgar spits blood onto the floor. It pools in the grout between the hardwood planks. He presses the back of his hand to his crushed nose and the sound that leaves his throat is half groan, half growl. His eyes are watering and his jaw hangs slack on the left side where my fist landed.

I step toward him. He stumbles back and his heel catches on a shard of crystal. He goes down on one knee.