Page 98 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bride

Whiskey releases a low growl, sensing the threat immediately, and I hold a hand in front of him to tell him not to move.

The older man eyes me, his gaze dropping to Whiskey briefly before returning to meet mine. Familiar dark eyes narrow. “Silas?”

It takes me a few seconds to remember him, but Barry has been the head of security at this building since I was born. If anyone was going to recognize me despite how much I’ve changed, it’s him. “Hello, Barry. We’re going up to ten now.”

His jaw hardens, and for a moment, I think we’re going to have a serious issue. The man was always loyal to Father and Uncle Marty. A “lifer” who has been with Bolton Steel since his early twenties. They’ve relied on him forever to prevent unwanted people from getting anywhere in the building, but he steps to the side, motioning toward an open elevator. “I hope you know what you’re getting yourself into, kid.”

It’s the only warning we’re going to get, and it’s clear Barry knows precisely what Uncle Marty is capable of. He’s likely cleaned up more than one mess for him here within these very walls over the decades he’s been here.

I incline my head toward him and step into the elevator with Whiskey at one side and Lyla on the other, wrapping my arm around her to keep her close.

She loops hers around my waist and squeezes as she presses the button for ten and the doors slide closed. “Don’t forget to breathe.”

I’m trying, but my chest is so tight I can barely suck in any air.

Even the smell of the elevator makes me want to run—the “fresh” scent they pipe in here triggers memories I don’t want to relive.

I shake my head to try to clear them and breathe through my mouth to stop myself from inhaling any more of the smell. “I never thought I’d be back here.”

Lyla rubs my arm. “I know. Just remind yourself you’re doing the right thing and that he can’t hurt you anymore.”

Her words are meant to be reassuring, but we both know they’re not true.

Not by a long shot.

Marty has any number of ways to hurt me—to hurtus—and we still don’t know what the hell happened with Ronald or if anyone’s even going to show up to have my back today.

The elevator dings at the tenth floor far too quickly, and the doors slide open to the executive offices where Father and Uncle Marty ran the company my entire life—their ivory tower. They could do no wrong here, their staff willing to do anything and cover up anything to get their payoffs and secure their jobs.

It’s the kind of power no man should have—especially one like Marty.

Another receptionist—this one a redhead—sits directly in front of us, and we step out slowly, each of us scanning the elegant space for threats. The redhead’s eyes dart to Whiskey briefly as she pulls her phone away from her ear and returns it to the cradle.

“Mr. Bolton…” She stands and walks around her desk, extending her hand to me. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

I narrow my eyes on her.

What’s with the welcome party?

As soon as they called up from downstairs, Uncle Marty should have tried to put this place into lockdown to prevent me from interfering with the meeting.

Something about this isn’t right.

Whiskey senses it, too, his ears perked and his eyes assessing every inch of the space.

I pull my arm from around Lyla to shake the woman’s hand, despite the unease crawling up my spine. “Nice to meet you, too. This is Lyla.”

They shake hands, but Lyla doesn’t say a word. The woman doesn’t askwhoLyla is, either, almost like she already knows.

She extends her arm, her manicured nails flashing red. “Everyone’s already waiting.”

Waiting.

It seems Uncle Marty knew we’d be coming despite the threats he issued the other day. That makes this ten times more dangerous. He’s already a move, if not two, ahead, and he isn’t the kind of man to let you catch up so the game is fair.

Lyla and I follow the receptionist down the hallway, hand in hand, with Whiskey’s nails clicking on the tile. The glass-enclosed conference room comes into view, and eight sets of eyes all turn to watch us approach.

The receptionist pulls open the door and ushers us into absolute silence. Uncle Marty sits at the head of the table where Father used to sit, reclining slightly in his chair, arms steepled in front of his lips, though even he can’t conceal the smirk that lies under it.

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