Page 87 of Sinister Intentions

He stared back at me, his eyes full of mischief while my own were hard as steel. “But the middle of the night is hardly the right time for big decisions,” I said.

I found my father’s men nodding their agreement.

“I suggest we postpone this meeting to first thing tomorrow morning.”

My father glared at me. “Since we’re all here right now, we do it now.”

Fuck.

I fixed Zotov with another glare, one that had made lesser men wither—but not Zotov, then I nodded once and straightened. “Then I need to excuse myself. I’m sure you don’t need me to come to a beneficial agreement for everyone.”

My father looked like he was about to blow a gasket, and Zotov looked perplexed.

Without waiting for a response, I strode out of the room, Matt close on my heels.

As soon as we were in the hallway, Alex approached, his face grim. “Fee’s worried sick. She said Jemma mentioned meeting some friends, but she’s not answering texts or calls.”

I ran a hand through my hair, frustration and unease warring inside me. What was the punk thinking, not coming back home at a decent hour?

“I’m on it.” I pulled out my phone and dialed Jemma’s security detail.

“What about the meeting?” Matt asked, glancing back at the conference room door.

I hesitated, torn between my responsibilities and the worry for Jemma. “You two go back in. Keep an eye on Zotov and whatever the hell he and Father are planning. I’ll handle this.”

As they nodded and turned to go, I grabbed Matt’s arm. “And Matt? Not a word about where I’m going to anyone in there. Understood?”

He met my eyes, a flicker of understanding passing between us. “Got you, Brother.”

“Where the hell is she?” I barked into the phone and ended the call as soon as I got my question answered.

If my little punk thought she could act this way, she had another think coming.

Somebody needed to teach her some discipline.

And that someone was apparently me.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Istormed into the pub, the heavy bass pulsing through my chest, matching the thundering beat of my pulse. The stench of stale beer and sweat assaulted my nostrils as I scanned the dimly lit room.

I locked my eyes onto the bar, and there she was—my little punk, Jemma, writhing on top of it like some goddamn Coyote Ugly reject. And next to her? Isabella. My own little sister.

White-hot rage surged through me, and I clenched my fists at my sides. I shouldered past the drunken crowd, my jaw set so tight, I thought my teeth might crack.

The song reached its crescendo, and Jemma threw her head back, laughing, her green hair catching the lights and appearing almost neon. For a split second, I was mesmerized by the delicate curve of her neck, the glimpse of skin beneath her cropped shirt and the flash of her smile.

I shook it off. This wasn’t the time to get distracted by her infuriating allure.

As the final notes faded, I’d almost reached the bar.

Jemma’s eyes met mine, and I saw the moment recognition hit. Her sappy smile faltered, replaced by a look of defiance that made my blood boil.

I watched, seething, as some random asshole lifted Jemma off the bar. His hands lingered on her hips, and my fingers twitched with the urge to break every one of his fucking fingers. But it was Jemma’s reaction that really set me off.

She threw her arms around the guy’s neck, pressing her body against his in a way that made my vision blur with a blood-red tint.

But her eyes…her eyes remained locked with mine the entire time.

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