Page 7 of Captive Mafia Wife

He glances down at the suit in question. “I’m a…blueberry?”

I eye his sleek physique. He’s classicallyhawt,an adjective I borrow from LA Kitt. There’s no denying it.

“Not a blueberry, hon.” He’s anythingbutround and juicy. He’s ice-cold, older than me, and slightly bitter. “An elderberry popsicle!”

His brow crinkles like he wants to laugh.

“You’re killing my buzz, Freddie. I need to remedy that fact.” I tilt my head at the whisky. “Can I get that bottle back, now?”

“I think you’ve had enough for tonight.” He not only holdsthe delicious liquor further away but reaches out, smoothly taking my glass from my hand.

“Says who?” I punctuate the question with a hiccup. “Oops!”

A large hand wraps around my empty one. “The owner of the whisky you drink.”

I snatch my hand back from his. It was generous to supply my party, but if he thinks he can take my drink…he’s got another thing coming!

I’ve met his type before, thinking he can control a woman in the name of helping her. My brother—whom I adore—is the exact same way. Once he married Fiona, he gave up on trying to overprotect me, smartly re-directing all his father-like protection toward his little wife’s way.

I’m not a sweet Strawberry Grass flower like our native Fiona. She was waiting for a strong man to pluck her from the green grass of our rolling hills. Me?

I’m single as a Pringle, and that’s how I’ll remain.

Black nails glint against my pale skin in the moonlight, starkly contrasting with his gorgeous olive complexion as I reach for the cup. “I’ll have that back now, thank you very much.”

“Not a chance.” Holding his arm out straight, he slowly tips the cup over, letting the last tiny drop of his delicious whisky roll down the side of the glass. His eyes never once leave mine during the slow, painful process.

“Pff! I’m off. I haven’t even tried the Spooksicle yet.” I dismiss him with a wave of my hand as if it’s my idea toswitch from whisky to vodka. My bare feet sink into the lawn, cold, damp, and lovely against my skin as I leave him.

Wait.

Am I being rude?

I am the host, after all.

I turn to face his disapproval. “Shall I get you one as well?”

He’s gone.

I hover as I glance around to find him.

He’s gone, gone.Gone Girlgone. I shrug.

He smells like a Persian god, but good riddance.

Chapter Three

Freya

It’sdark and quieter here at the rear of the property, the rich scent of Fiona’s jasmine flowers in the air. Raised in fresh air and humble homes, my island family and my dearest friends from childhood are drawn to the garden.

They’ve traveled hours to be here, some taking an overnight ferry from our wee island to the big city of Glasgow. Callum rents a floor of the Sherwood, a local hotel, year-round, so our revolving door of visitors always has a comfy place to stay.

I greet each person as I pass by, thanking them for making the long trek as I head to the whisky. No one here will stop me from completing my mission.

Fiona’s four brothers have fashioned an outdoor bar for the night. Sitting on the grass is an upside-down dingy set on two tree stumps, bottles lining its top. Arran, my childhoodfriend and first kiss, stands behind the boat-turned-bar, holding a bottle of Frisky Whisky to fill a friend’s glass.

His smooth voice takes me back to school rugby matches and sneaking smokes behind the caretakers’ shed as he greets me with an easy, “Heya Freya.”

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