Page 43 of Riordan's Revenge

She tilted her head. “Two?”

I pressed my mouth to hers. With a squeak of surprise, she stilled, then kissed me back.

Head rush.

Hot blood.

Muscles taut to stop from grabbing her too roughly.

I meant to be brief, but the way she met me and moved with me flipped a switch in my brain that sent me back for more. I tugged her closer. Stifled a groan at another perfect press.

My heart thumped out of time.

Breaking away, I kissed below her ear then whispered, “Whatever I’m facing, why does it feel like the biggest danger is you?”

She twisted her lips in breathless amusement but didn’t reply.

Around the corner, Struan waited at the top of another broad hallway. I peered into the gloom. Down one side, moonlight filtered through windows in silver slices, and the other side was decorated with portraits. Heavy wooden frames containing oil paintings, the glimmer of gold around the edges proclaiming their age and importance.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Your training ground.” Struan took the gun to a side table then pulled something from his pocket. Bullets, from the heavy thud of the box and the clink of metal.

What the fuck? I dove my eyebrows together. “Enjoy bullet holes in your antiques?”

Her brother uttered a laugh, and Cassie curled her arm through mine, leading me down the corridor. I followed hergentle pressure, the easy contact almost familiar yet still startling.

“A little bit of history,” she said. “All the people in these portraits are our ancestors. Our father, who if ye recall was one of the worst people to have ever breathed, was so proud of his family history that he bred us kids in order to preserve it. But he had a second part to his plan. He chose sex workers to bear his children then left us to be raised in poverty. His reasoning was to toughen us up so none of us would ever take wealth and luxury for granted. Right at the point he was ready to claim one of us, we were kidnapped by someone else, but that’s another story.”

We stopped by a side table. On it was a white vase with blue painted flowers.

Cassie picked it up and held it out. “Throw it.”

I hesitated. It appeared old. Probably valuable. The type of object you edged around so you didn’t jog the table it sat on.

She rolled her eyes then reared back and launched the vase down the corridor. It hit the floorboards and shattered, pieces skidding away into the gloom.

From behind, her brother laughed under his breath.

Cassie took hold of my arm again and continued strolling. “The problem was, McInver, that’s his name, didn’t anticipate how much we’d hate everything he stood for. He assumed whichever of us he picked as his heir, which was Sin by the way, would fall at his feet with gratitude and keep his memory and family traditions alive. My sister-in-law researched that history, and there’s nothing pleasant about it. Our ancestors got rich mostly from hurting other people. So these arseholes,” she drifted a hand over the nearest painting on the wall, “don’t deserve your respect. But they do deserve your bullets.”

Nearer the end of the hall, I picked out something new in one of the portraits. Holes.

“You use them as target practice?” I asked.

Cassie beamed and squeezed my arm. “On occasion. We usually shoot into a sandbank on the estate, but this does just as well when I can’t go outside. Pick who you’d like to ventilate.”

My mouth fell open in silent humour. Striding to the wall, I lifted down a painting of some old guy in a white wig. Pieces of the destroyed vase crunched under my feet, and I followed Cassie’s direction, staggering slightly as the fucker weighed a ton, and propped his artwork up on a table at the end of the space.

We returned to Struan.

“Who’d he pick?” he asked.

“I think a great-grandfather four times removed. Another Sinclair McInver.”

“Nice choice.”

He handed me the gun. It was heavier than before. Loaded.

---