Page 117 of Connor's Claim

With a swift lift of a biker boot, Riordan kicked their chairs so they tipped forward, still tied on and clattering down to the floor with no way to protect themselves from the fall.

“Everly? I mean Miss Makepeace,” Blake spluttered with his face to the grubby lino. “I’ve never…oh God, the conference? Benjamin, this is your fault. You and your big mouth?—”

Cassie unleashed a kick. “Focus, gentlemen.”

Blake groaned. “We’re sorry for the harm caused. It was unthinking. Unthinkable. A mistake.”

“My deepest apologies and regrets, Miss Makepeace,” Slaughter added.

I took a breath to give them my forgiveness when Connor strode over and grasped Blake by his hair. He raised him, pulled back his arm, and punched him in the side of the head. He repeated the act with the other councillor, and their heads thunked against the floor, the men unconscious once more.

Then Connor shrugged. “Not worth wasting good drugs on these arseholes.”

He stalked away to make a quick call, then had the councillors untied and a couple of crew members arrive to cart them away. Where they’d be left, I didn’t know, or care. Never again did I have to handle them, and it felt good.

The door closed after the retreating crew, and the five of us were left with Piers.

I once again moved to stand with Genevieve at the back, and Cassie took to the wall next to Riordan, her high heel kicked back in a show of nonchalance.

Riordan lowered his head to speak to her. “Are ye okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“What about your hand?”

“I know how to throw a punch,” she scoffed.

His eyebrows pinched together. “How?”

“Four older brothers and anger issues.”

I expected a grin to go with her words. Cassie only sighed.

Connor woke Piers. The vile man struggled out of his slump, bruises on his cheekbones and jaw that appeared to be a mix of old and new, and his more upright position revealing a wet patch on his trousers. He was the source of the urine smell.

Piers centred on Connor. “Who are you?”

Connor stared him down.

Piers tried again, his tone brash. “I demand an answer. I’m the next baron of Ryechester. You cannot do this to me.”

I squinted, the title a surprise. He’d told me his facts, and nowhere in that had been a barony. Surely that would’ve been a bragging point. I hadn’t gone looking up his family.

I did now, my fingers flying over my phone.

To the tune of Piers making demands at an ominously silent Connor, I scoured the web for the Baron of Ryechester, discovering records for a large estate and a stately home in Surrey.

Anwell Roache was the title holder. I clicked into his bio. He was forty-six and married, no children recorded, but there were siblings. Piers’ name was listed. There was another brother, too, with Piers the youngest. That didn’t make sense. Why would he claim he was the heir?

Another fact clicked in place in my mind.

My father adored the aristocracy. That family tree on our wall with its missing information was only one of his ways of connecting to roots he wished he was closer to. His very title of Mayor was one he’d sought in lieu of being a lord. He’d told me that so many times. He wanted the respect that went with rank so had gone to great lengths to achieve it.

Could that be the reason he wanted Piers?

I focused on joining the dots. If Piers somehow inherited that title and I married him, my child would one day be titled.

The room closed in around me.

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