Page 162 of Brutal Prince

“What?” I ask, my voice too soft, too unsteady.

“Do I not give you enough, son?” There’s open contempt on his words when his sneer could have sufficed to convey his disgust.

“I…what are you talking about?” I’d been gearing up for some of his usual sentimental drivel about my mother, not a full-on confrontation.

“Is it drugs?” He steps closer. I wish I could move back, because I’ve never felt such venomous anger flowing from him before.

“Dad, I don’t know what you’re—”

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I’m that fucking obtuse?” He doesn’t raise his voice, not even a little, because he doesn’t have to. I’m fucking terrified, and I still don’t know why he’s angry with me.

I lift my hands, palms facing him. That, at least, stops his slow advance. But it does nothing to the set of his mouth or the righteous indignation glaring in his eyes.

“Couldn’t figure it out, even when I did it right in front of you, could you?”

Finally, my scrambling brain finds purchase. “The safe?” I blurt out. I wave my hands. “Dad, no, I have the money. All of it.” I stab a thumb over my shoulder. “It’s in my—”

“Did he promise you a cut?” My father lifts his chin, hands still clasped behind his back for all the world like he’s having an idle chat with his son.

If you didn’t take into account his eyes, of course.

“Who?”

“That Baker boy. And don’t tell me he didn’t have anything to do with this. I know it’s him. It’s always been him!”

Now my head’s fucking spinning again. “Dad, please. I have the money from the safe. I can give it to you right now.”

My father cocks his head. “And the files? All my clients’s information? Do you also happen to have that in your car?” Sarcasm drips from every word. His face contorts into mock concern. “I’m assuming you haven’t made any copies, of course?”

I gape openly at him.

His clients’s…?

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

Four digits.

I thought it was the front door, that night.

It wasn’t.

It was the entry code for my father’s study.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

How many times had he tried a different combination over the years? I know he never asked me about it, and I’ve never once been inside with him there. Dumb luck, or years and years of patient determination?

I stagger back shaking my head, doing my best to reign in a thousand abrupt thoughts tumbling over themselves in their rush to be acknowledged.

That’s why Marcus chose that room. It’s closest to the study.

Was that why he was okay living with me? Why he was so pissed off when I said my Dad had said no?

He must have accessed my father’s computer. Copied his files.

But when? Why? What use—?

“Dad, do you keep their addresses on file?” I bark out, my eyes wide and my hands already curling into fists.

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