Page 100 of Shattered Jewel

“Follow me,” he says, turning on his heel and striding into the mansion’s depths without waiting to see if we’ll comply.

Wilder circles my waist and holds me against him as we walk inside. His body language screams victory, but his tight hold on me shouts we’re far from it.

But the contrast between the gritty exterior of the mansion and lavish interior of the manor is staggering. I take in the high ceilings and rich woodwork of the entrance hall. My eyes catch an impressive array of framed photographs lining one wall—Clover at the center of most, which tells me all I need to know. She’s the reason for the surprising warmth in this house of killers, even going so far as to lay out group photos of her arms slung around her men, or kissing the cheek of one while holding another at her side, or splayed on top of all of them on the couch, laughing freely, and even coaxing warm gazes from her partners, one even smiling down at her. With tattoos inked on his neck and covering the tips of his fingers, it has to be Professor Morgan.

If Sasha were here…

A smile stretches my lips wide. The elusive professor she wished more than anything would grant her sophomore wish, and I’m in his house.

Rio leads us down a long hallway to a large, open room at the back of the manor, a generous space filled with plush furniture in dark tones and pale marble floors.

On the far side near the fireplace, stands a woman. Her long black hair cascades down her back in wild waves, shining in the firelight. She’s dressed in a black t-shirt and jeans, but transcends the simple style with an exquisitely delicate face and liquid brown eyes that glint with copper from the flames.

And she’s not alone.

Rossi stands beside her, his tall, muscled physique and stern, sinister expression hard to forget.

He wears a tailored suit, the fabric stretched taut over his muscular frame.

Rossi watches us walk in with a guarded expression, his arm possessively wrapping around Clover’s waist in a similar way to how Wilder keeps me close.

I swallow hard as we approach them. There’s a sense of belonging between Clover and her men that is almost palpable; it radiates off them, filling the room with an energy that is intimidating and fascinating to witness despite only just having met her.

I felt it when I spoke to Rossi the night he tended to Kaspian, cringed away from it when Rio directed his possessiveness over her at me, and am now facing it head-on.

“You must be Elara,” Clover greets in a light, friendly tone.

Wilder’s grip on my waist tightens, his fingers digging into my skin through my coat.

“Elara. Wilder.” Rossi’s voice is a low rumble, each syllable precise and measured. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Clover’s copper-flecked eyes study me with unnerving intensity.

“We need your help,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

Rossi’s cheekbones cast knife-edge shadows over his bones as he lowers his chin. “We’ve already involved ourselves more than we should have. Whatever trouble you’ve found yourself in, it’s not our concern.”

Wilder’s fingers press into my hip, a silent warning to tread carefully and not to give too much of our situation away. But desperation propels me forward. “Please. It involves my brother’s killers. And I think they’re targeting women connected to the university and my brother got too close. Women like me and Clover.”

Clover and Rossi exchange a loaded glance, an entire conversation seeming to pass between them in that brief moment. Rio shifts his weight behind us, his presence a hovering reminder of the precariousness of our position.

Clover turns back to me, her expression inscrutable. “And what makes you think I can help?”

“You’re practically an expert on Sarah Anderton lore. It has to do with her and what she left behind over two hundred years ago.”

Rossi’s stare tunnels into me. “We made ourselves clear the last time we met, Miss Wraithwood. You chose to deny our protection and continue your pursuit of the ruby. And now you come into my home and ask our woman to become involved in your pointless, reckless pursuit? Are you as mad as your moth?—”

“Don’t you dare,” Wilder growls, heedless of Rossi having two decades of deadly accuracy over him. “Finish that sentence and I don’t care if I never walk out of here, as long as I take you down with me.”

Wilder says it with such lethal calm, I instinctively lean away, terrified that my simple request will cause these men to kill each other.

Clover swiftly intercedes.

“First of all,” she says, holding up a finger, “Your woman has a mind of her own. And second, Elara doesn’t deserve your mafia-level threats, Miguel.”

Her voice carries a tone of command that shuts down any argument Rossi might have had ready on his lips.

“Well said,” I manage.

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