Page 51 of Shattered Veil

Jaw tight and his thick body in a military posture, he says, “None of my business, lass.”

“Fair enough. But I’m not. I just told Balor that to have a little...” When I fade off, Trace finally looks at me with a cocked brow to finish. “A little fun. A fantasy.”

“Fantasy,” he says in a deep timbre. “Fantasy about sleeping with a rich, powerful man?”

“No.” I smile. “Getting lost with a stranger. Or... Being away from the world and not caring about anything.”

“Do women...like that?”

If I’m still around next December and there’s a holiday grab bag, I’m tossing in bundles of romance novels for Trace and the others at the command center. Tip them off about what women want.

“The accent does it for me, too.” I wink.

“Accent.”

“That brogue. Yours is deeper than Balor’s.”

“He’s lived here in America since grade school. My brother and I just moved abroad around six months ago.”

“Makes sense.” I nod. “You were in the military in Ireland?”

“Aye.” He stiffens and just as there are so many American wounded warriors from two decades of war in the Middle East, Trace might have scars. Emotional or even physical.

I imagine this tall and broad man with damaged skin under his suit. Marks from an honorable duty to serve. Unlike my scars, which are permanent memories of how I couldn’t fight back.

Etching my own skin with tattoos was the only way I knew how to take back my power.

Shaking that away, I go to ask Trace some more questions about the tattoos I see snaking up his neck, but Balor joins us at the table.

Trace stands when Balor sits down. Looking at the plates of food that he made for us, I smile. It’s everything I like.

“Quinlan, sit,” Balor says, handing out wrapped plasticware that feels cheap in my hands.

I can only imagine how a billionaire feels using this crap.

“You two, eat.” Trace adjusts his suit jacket. “There’re too many people here for me to relax.”

“They’re poor schleps like us who got caught in the storm and had to find refuge off the highway. No one’s even looked my way.” Balor is next to me, our legs bumping. “I also hacked into the cameras here and sent feeds to Shane. If anyone does something stupid, Lachlan will track them down.”

In a lethal murmur, Trace says, “If something happens, I hope Lachlan will let me and Rhys help.”

Even Balor stops what he’s doing based on Trace’s tone. “That would be up to Lachlan.”

Who in the world is this Lachlan character?

Trace’s jaw twitches. “I’ll be able to eat better when you’re back in the rooms.”

“The food will be cold then, Trace,” I argue, even if it’s kind of cold now.

“They have microwaves,” he says, looking straight ahead. “Not that I’d mind if they didn’t.”

I don’t know everything about fitness, but at six-five, that man must require several thousand calories a day. We had lunch with the CEO, but Trace stayed with the car. I assume he ate on his own somewhere in that small town.

Balor elbows me. “Eat. Don’t worry about him.”

Jealousy laces his tone, and I smirk, yanking the plastic wrapper away from the fork, knife, and spoon.

The hotel put out heated trays of baked ziti, wings, Swedish meatballs, eggplant rollatini, and at least thirty boxes of pizza.

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