Page 49 of Heart of Frost and Scars

After I shower and get ready for the day, I return to the room to find them both asleep.

Slipping into the closet, I pull on a T-shirt and jeans, loving the fit more than I should.

Being dependent on the Strakh family patriarch makes my skin crawl. It feels too much like the life we just escaped.

Quietly, I push the desk away from the bedroom door.

“Where are you going?” Kody’s gravelly voice drifts from the bed.

“Need to walk the outside perimeter of the guest house.”

“Thought you did that last night before you came up here.”

“I did, but it was dark. I need to see it in the daylight, make sure I didn’t miss anything.” I open the door, reengage the lock, and step out. “Then I’ll head to the main house.”

“No fistfights, assfucker.”

“No promises, cocksucker. Don’t let her out of your sight.” I shut the door on his grunt.

After my perimeter sweep, I stroll along the paths through the island’s interior with the image of that shadowy figure in my mind. I look for it amid the vibrant life around me, glancing back at the trees, half-expecting to find those haunting eyes staring back at me.

The few security guards I pass make themselves known, stepping out of the shadows to nod at me.

Their presence eases my trepidation, and eventually, I find my way back to the covered patio behind the main house.

Sitting beneath the overhang, Monty sips from a mug and types on his phone.

His head lifts as I approach, and his expression takes me aback.

Rage.

It twists his features and leaks from his rigid posture. A leak he’s struggling to contain.

His eyes, bloodshot and bruised from my fists, sink into his face like he hasn’t slept in days. But holy fuck, that glare cuts into me, cleaving and hacking with murderous intent.

The scent of alcohol clings to him, heavy and pungent, despite the presence of aftershave and cologne. He slumps over a cup of coffee, his hand trembling as he pours more whiskey into it, the amber liquid swirling in the dark brew.

His freshly washed hair clumps across his brow, still damp. His suit hangs askew on his hunched shoulders.

A mess of cuts and bruises covers one hand, his knuckles swollen and raw, adding to the image of a man who’s losing a battle with himself.

A man on the brink of self-destruction.

And hungover.

Last night was long for Montgomery Strakh, and I don’t have to guess why.

How many punches did he throw in a jealous rage? How many bottles of whiskey did he escape into?

Nothing will bring her back to him.

I feel a twinge of compassion as I engage his venomous stare. Just a twinge. Nothing more.

He hurt my girl and deserves every stab of guilt and pain that torments him.

Pulling out the chair across from him, I settle in. “You look like shit.”

He drags his angry gaze over my tied-back hair, beard, and clenched teeth in my feral smile. “You look like you’re ready to raid a village and rape its women.”

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