Page 71 of Ruthless Reign

“I came for a chat, that’s all.”

A chat?

Keep him talking, Becks.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

I grabbed a glass out of the cupboard and turned to the sink, running the tap to fill it with water. It went against every instinct in my body to turn my back on him, but I needed him to think I wasn’t afraid. That his presence didn’t faze me.

Spinning back around, I leaned on the counter, sipping the cool liquid as I placed my hand next to my purse.

“A few questions, and then I’ll be out of your hair. It’ll be much easier if you give me what I’m looking for.”

I didn’t want to know what the hard way looked like.

I nodded. “Fine. Get it over with.”

Why was it so fucking dark in here? My eyes were adjusting to the dimness, but it would make aiming that much harder.

“First, I must ask what you were doing at my son’s house. It seems you went in with a weapon. And shortly after you left, a paramedic arrived.”

“He’ll be fine.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

He’s close. Barely fifteen feet away.

It would be harder to miss than it would be to hit him.

I cleared my throat, slipping my hand closer to my bag. “He shot Kaleb.”

“Ah. Yes. On my order. Actually, it was you I’d been hoping to take from Damien but my men weren’t able to get their hands on you. The younger St. Vincent son was a secondary choice, but a good alternative considering.”

I choked on his admission. Me. It should’ve been me.

If they’d just let me go with them, it would’ve been.

Would Aodhán have shot me at his father’s command, too?

I could see the sleek metal barrel of my gun.

Just a few more inches.

“Too bad he isn’t dead yet,” Séamas said with false sincerity and I moved, his words a vicious whip against my hesitation.

I reached for the gun, drawing it out in one quick motion, clicking off the safety, aiming?—

But he wasn’t in the living room.

My legs went out from under me and the gun was wrenched from my grip as I went down, my back hitting the tile floor hard with his weight atop me. I gasped as every ounce of air was knocked from my lungs. I hiccupped, taking tiny sips of precious oxygen as my ears rang and my vision swam.

“I only wanted to talk, little Saint,” Séamas hissed at me through his teeth, his eyes wide and focused with the sort of intent only a madman could possess as he lifted me.

“This could’ve been easy,” he grunted, dragging me into the small dining area. I kicked, but with lungs still fighting for air and my head pounding and ears ringing it was like fighting through sensory deprivation, and I didn’t catch a full breath until my ass hit the hard wood of a dining chair.

I swung out with a closed fist, and he caught it with ease, wrenching it behind my back.

I cried out at the harsh burn in my shoulder but it was the cinching of thin, hard plastic around my wrist that threw me into a real panic.

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