Page 10 of His Pretty Little Duet

"The house looked different when I started. Mr and Mrs Butcher have slowly been renovating."

I lean my hip on the counter, thinking about the way Mr Butcher made me kneel between his knees, about my body's response to his scent, proximity, and domination. I shake the memory away, as the wordsMrs Butcherrepeat. He has a wife, and I'm little more than a stray pet who might be growing someone worth something to someone important, maybe.

"How did Jimmy Storm die?" I ask.

"Cancer, but it was sudden," she says, walking over to the kitchen, a subtle indication for us to head back to the room. "Like, one minute he was breathing and the next"—she chokes herself, making a theatrical gagging sound—"his lungs gave out. Just like that."

As I wander past her, she flicks the light off, engulfing my back in black as we exit the kitchen.

Approaching the room, I feel my face burn, shame like a furnace heating my cheeks. Under the unimpressed gaze of Henchman Jeeves, I trail Jasmine. She adds a prance to her step, proving his scrutiny is ineffective, to one of us, at least. He straightens, waiting for us, his arms folded over his chest, foot tapping slightly. I've never been minded like this before. Most of the time, my presence goes unnoticed.

He raises an eyebrow at her. "Next time, a heads-up would be nice before you go wandering around."

She laughs. "Why? You hungry?"

"A little, yes."

Back in the room, I strip down to my underwear and make myself comfortable on the king-size bed while Jasmine snuggles into the roll-out mattress.

I think about our conversation. One part, actually.

Mrs Butcher.

Images of a beautiful, graceful woman taunt me, while the thought of him creates a warm pool low in my stomach, too low to be anything but indecent.

Clay Butcher.

He's not old enough to be aMr Butcher.How old is he, anyway? Mid to late thirties? Beneath that flawlessly fitted suit, I can tell he has a powerful body, but I can't picture it. Does he have a light dusting of grey hair on his chest? I groan at my own mind, rolling onto my side. Squeezing my eyes shut, I count inappropriate sheep with piercing blue irises.

And feel guilt move into my stomach because they should be hazel, just like Benji's were.

Clay

The Glock pulsesin my palms, its rounds unloading into the organs of the distant canvas swaying at the end of my shooting range.

Stomach.

The image of my brother, Bronson, tied to a metal chair rattles my resolve. The following bullets rattle the room.

Left knee.

Right knee.

Blood pissed from Bronson's forehead, snaking in rivulets down his cheek.

Left shoulder.

Right Shoulder.

I was drinking whiskey in first class on the way home from Sicily while he was bleeding...

Left iliac

Right iliac

All to take down Jimmy, step into his shoes, fight my way from beneath his ever-growing shadow with an entire city watching my every move. With my brothers depending on me.

Left eye.

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