Page 26 of Stealing Cinder

Good. He can stay there.

"Your first mistake was touching her." I bury my fist into the bridge of his already broken nose. Fresh blood erupts between his fingers when his hands fly to his face. Cartilage folds under my knuckles and the wet grind of it vibrates through my wrist.

"Your second was touching the woman I intend to marry."

His head whips to the right on the next punch. A tooth skips across the hardwood, white against the dark grain. Blood runs from the split in his lower lip and drips off his chin in thick, slow drops. The foyer smells of bourbon, blood, and the bitter film of cigar smoke.

"And your third..."

Movement catches my peripheral vision. The pocket doors to the poker room slide open without a sound.

Oliver steps out first, charcoal eyes flat, one hand already inside his jacket. Bastian follows, his tie loosened and his gold wedding band catching the chandelier light. His grin spreads wide and sharp. He always loves a brawl.

Valerian fills the doorframe last, an unlit cigar pinched between two fingers, the scarred landscape of his jaw set tight. Three seconds of silence. Their eyes sweep the scene. Cinder at my side. Edgar on his knees, bleeding from the face. Me standing over him with blood on my knuckles.

All three arm themselves. Jackets shift. Metal clears leather. Three clicks in quick succession.

"I see you've been up to no good." Bastian rolls his sleeves back and plants his feet.

The poker room door swings wider behind them. One of Edgar's bodyguards bursts through with his weapon drawn and sweeping the foyer. Before the barrel finds a target, Valerian jams his gun against the man's temple. The bodyguard freezes.

Valerian holds the weapon steady with his right hand. With his left, he fishes a lighter from his breast pocket, flicks the flame to life, and brings it to the end of his unlit cigar. He draws slow, turning the tip until a bright cherry burns at the end. Smoke swirls around his head and the low light turns the haze amber, framing him like a goddamn oil painting.

The fucker loves to be dramatic.

I turn back to Edgar. He is on both knees now, his hands cupped under his chin to catch the blood still pouring from his ruined nose. His eyes dart between my friends and the fear in them is the most honest expression I've seen on his face all night.

"No good at all, my friend. But it’s a bit of a long story. But I think it’s safe to say we are not getting a peace contract signed tonight." I roll my shoulders once and crack my neck. "One last thing before we go."

I lower myself to Edgar’s level. Blood drips between his fingers to drive on the floor. His breathing is ragged, wet, each inhale pulling through the mess I made of his nasal cavity.

"And your third mistake was calling her a whore."

I drive my fist into the side of his jaw. The joint pops and his head rotates on impact, a spray of blood and saliva arcing through the chandelier light. His body crumples sideways onto the floor and the sound of his weight hitting the floor is dull and final. He groans and curls onto his side.

From the floor, Edgar lifts his head. His swollen eyes find Oliver, Bastian, Valerian. Their expressions are blank. Carved from granite and offering him nothing.

"Aren't you going to do something?" The bellow comes out garbled through blood and a dislocated jaw. He searches each of their faces for an ally and finds none.

I straighten. Flex my fingers. The knuckles sting and the ridged scar tissue across them has split in two places. Fresh blood mixes with Edgar's. I wipe my hand against my thigh and turn toward Cinder.

She stands with one hand still gripping the banister. Her pale blonde hair hangs loose over one shoulder. The halter top pulls against her belly and the curve of my child presses against the dark fabric.

The brightness in her eyes has dulled. Whatever fire burned in them when she shoved my gun into Edgar's forehead is gone. What replaces it is heavy and flat, a dullness behind her lashes that crushes the air from my lungs.

I pull her to my side. She comes without fighting me, her smaller frame fitting against my ribs as if five months never passed between us. Her pulse vibrates against my forearm.

The tactical calculation runs in three seconds flat. Unless I want a war to break out in this mansion and the evening to end with bodies buried in the garden out back, I need to leave before bullets start flying. A few punches are easily smoothed with a couple million in restitution. Nobody likes writing the check, but everyone prefers it to digging graves. If someone gets shot, then that is a different story.

Without this alliance, territory wars eat through our territories. It’s a bunch of fucking dick measuring but the death tolls will be real. And the woman pressed against my side becomes the first target.

I turn us toward the front door.

“Wait.” Cinder breaks from my side before I make it two steps. She drops to her knees beside the chest of drawers, reaches underneath, and comes back up with the Beretta in her fist.

"Let's go.” I tuck her to my side.

Holding her close, I pause at Edgar’s side. “You'll receive an apology tomorrow after I speak with my accountant. I think it's safe to say two million should do it since only bones were broken and I haven't killed anyone on your property."