Page 23 of Yours


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“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Malcolm.” Asher nods at this and I send Carmelo a text, telling him to drive the Bennett’s to the private condo Malcolm keeps near the office. They both begin to step out of the room, but Kyle pauses just within the threshold to look back at me. “I owe you my life, Javier. You noticed he was off right away and protected us both. Thank you.”

I nod at him and they walk out, leaving the three of us standing on different sides of the table. My side has a man who’s grumbling beneath my foot and bleeding.

“Tell me,” Malcolm asks.

“The idiot is obsessed with Mrs. Bennett and doesn’t hide his reactions well. I noticed his body language when they got in the car; hard breathing, glaring, and when Kyle kissed her cheek, his hand flexed over the gun at his waist.”

“How can he keep him on his payroll? Why didn’t he see this?” Mariah’s talking, but her hand with the gun shakes, and without a second thought, I leave the idiot on the ground and make my way to her. I take the Glock and lay it on the table, squeezing her fingers with mine.

Her reaction isn’t what I expect from her. Not from someone accustomed to our way of life.

Shit happens, but you never waver or lose composure. What’s wrong, Muñeca?

“You okay there, cousin?”

“I am.” Voice a little stronger—steadier, she pulls her hand from mine, eyes avoiding. “This just makes no sense.”

“Kyle will get his chance to explain tonight. Have this idiot taken downstairs and keep two guards in the room at all times.”

“Done.” With a final glance in her direction, I walk out and call the team working in the cells below the bank. The phone rings twice before someone picks up and silently waits. “You have a pick-up and delivery.”

“Yes, sir,” the guard answers, and the dial tone follows. It takes them four minutes to reach this floor and another three to remove the semi-conscious man, now with a bag covering his head. They take a private elevator, the one used only by those who work security or the Ashers themselves, and disappear as if they’ve never been here.

Behind me, in the room, I can hear mutterings and a few hissed whispers, but I pay the two cousins no mind and move toward my own office beside Malcolm’s. It’s a decent-sized room, the view behind my chair fantastic, but it feels complete a few minutes later when an angry Mariah storms into the room.

Her chest rises and falls fast. Her lips are thinned and the looks she’s giving me are cold.

“How can I help you, Ms. Asher? Is there something you need?”

“You could’ve been shot,” she spits out, hands clenching at her sides.

“Why do you care?” I challenge, standing to match her heated stare and lean over with two hands atop my desk. Not one to back down, Mariah does the same and puts her face a few inches from mine, nostrils flaring and always challenging.

“It was reckless of you to knock him down like that, forcing his arm toward your body, while the gun was in his hand.” Each word is coated with venom and is gritted out through clenched teeth. Her anger is palpable, but clearer to see is that she cares about my safety. “We don’t need that kind of shitstorm. If word gets out about what happened here…”

“I know how to do my job.”

“You’re an egotistical idiot.”

“Why do you care if I get shot?”

“I-I don’t.”

“Liar.”

“Fuck—” she doesn’t get to finish her insult as I grab the back of her neck and quickly press my lips to hers. She’s poison and fire, and I want nothing more than to be consumed by her. The kiss is fast and heated—decadent in a sweetness uniquely hers, but I don’t let her melt into me after a moan slips from her mouth to mine.

Instead, I pull back and watch her even though every cell of my DNA demands I retake those swollen lips and devour. Instead, I breathe in her intoxicating scent and lick my lips, savoring the last hint of her taste while Mariah flushes and her red lips part.

There’s shock in her eyes. There’s a hunger that matches mine, too.

Mariah knows I want her. Just like I know she wants me.

But more than that, there has to be a level of respect—trust—for this to work. I’m not a punching bag, and she isn’t a toy. In our world, stupid reactions can be costly.

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