Page 187 of The Sinner's Bargain

I stared for probably too long at the lump of a man standing unarmed and unprotected on my front lawn.

“No,” I said flatly.

The fucking idiot actually blinked like he hadn’t expected me to refuse. “I beg your pardon?”

I rubbed two fingers between my brows where a throbbing had started. “I’m not giving you my wife.”

Comical horror passed over his face. “She is my fiancé and she’s coming back with me. I paid a lot of money for her. She’s mine. She belongs to me.”

I wasn’t in the right mindset for this. I had expected more and maybe that was my fault. Maybe I gave this idiot too much credit.

“No,” I said again, not playing his game of who owns Naya.

I did.

My ring was on her finger.

She was in my bed.

Her heart belonged to me.

I didn’t need to prove anything to this pile of filth.

“You can’t keep—”

The shriek of tires and engine exploded through the night and a bright, yellow charger screamed through the broken gates. Mud flew as it swerved in like some dramatic action movie scene.

“What the fuck now?” I muttered under my breath.

The driver door was literally kicked open and a man emerged, tall, lean ... pissed. Eyes the glacial blue of the arctic found Brixton standing alone amongst a sea of dead bodies and cars. They narrowed over flared nostrils and curled lips.

Long, toned legs encased in black jeans and combat boots stalked across the ground. Despite the chill, he only wore a black t-shirt and the veins twining up his arms bulged from the twin fists at his sides.

Brixton blinked, looking both confused and suspicious at the sight. “Malcolm?”

My eyes widened.

Malcolm.

Naya’s brother. Even without the introduction, I could almost see the resemblance in the eyes.

“You fucking piece of shit!”

Before anyone could stop him — not that anyone would — five knuckles drove into Brixton’s jaw with the force of a charging bull. The crack snapped through my whole body like the shockwaves of a nuclear blast. It echoed through the night, muffled the snap of Brixton’s neck as his entire body flew backwards as if he weighed nothing.

“Jesus,” Cyrus breathed from next to me.

Brixton didn’t move. He lay sprawled across the dirt. Legs outstretched. Blood trickling from his mouth. Whether he was dazed or knocked out was hard to tell, but I was praying for dead.

Then the furious blond turned to where I stood. The moment he started forward, I knew he was about to get himself shot.

“Hold fire!” I yelled, because the last thing I needed was to have to explain to Naya how I let her brother get riddled with bullets.

He stopped at the bottom of the steps, chest straining against his top as he breathed hard. Eyes the mirror twins of Naya’s, minus the sweet warmth, met mine from amongst a tangle of unruly, blond strands. Not as light as Naya’s.

“Where the fuck is my sister?”

---