Page 4 of Borrowed Bride

“That’s twisted,” the woman replies tightly.

“So is stealing,” I snap, lifting my wallet. “This is not yours. I don’t give a shit what little sad story brought you to the streets so I’ll ask you again, do you have a fucking death wish?” I don’t try to keep the anger out of my tone, but as she shakes before me while trying to look unaffected, I take her in fully.

The rain drizzling around us soaks into her hair, darkening the auburn and bringing out the red streaks hidden in the color. Her almond-shaped eyes, lined with black, are espresso-brown, though they almost look like pools of black ink in the low light. She has an oval face and full pink lips that turn pale with how she repeatedly presses them together. Dressed in tight jeans and a T-shirt that hugs her shapely figure, the leather jacket might be the most expensive thing she owns.

I wouldn’t be surprised if that were stolen too.

Our eyes meet and a short, unexpected jolt of tension bolts through my chest. For a fraction of a second, she reminds me of someone. Someone long dead to me. The woman I once gave my entire heart and soul to.

Never again. She was cruelly taken from me, and that kind of pain never fades.

“Well?” I ask, tapping the wallets against one another. “Rat lost her voice?”

She lifts her chin slightly, exposing the golden length of her throat to my gaze. “I’m not a rat. You look like an asshole. Easy mark that doesn’t keep an eye on his belongings.” She smirks slightly and that right-slanted curl of her upper lip is so similar that tension forms in my chest once more.

Odd.

I open my wallet in front of her. “You read me so well, so tell me, where does the value lie? Is it the wallet itself? It’s expensive leather; I’m sure you could pawn that to some disgusting broker for a pretty penny. Is it this?” My fingertips nudge against the sparkling platinum trinket that dangles from the corner of the wallet. It’s the only thing that’s out of place in my entire look—my entire world—but it’s a dear gift from my sister, and I’d kill without hesitation if it were stolen.

“Is it the money?” I flip open my wallet and pull out the wad of cash. At a glance, it’s maybe two grand in big bills. I toss them out and her gaze drops to watch them scatter around her worn boots, soaking into the puddles forming around us. “No, that can’t be right. While money is traceable, these days most people don’t carry cash. It’s the cards, isn’t it?”

She remains tense despite the trembling of her knee against my own. “Sure. Assholes like you have more money than sense. You wouldn’t miss some fucking plastic.”

Her attitude amuses me despite the anger that her little stunt has caused.

“And this.” I open the other wallet. It’s empty of cash but there’s a single credit card and some ID. Sliding it out, I study the information. “David Garcia. A relation?”

“A dumbass.”

“Strange name for a victim.”

“You’re both far from being that,” she snaps.

“Really? You think theft is a victimless crime?”

“I know it is,” she replies tightly. “People like him. You. You don’t know shit about suffering. All that money, it’s not something you deserve. Whatever. If you’re gonna kill me then kill me.”

My free hand attaches to her throat within half a second and I tighten my grip just enough for her eyes to flash with alarm.

“You think you can pretend that you’re not scared to die?” I hiss closely, brushing our noses together. “Youstolefrom me. But you think it’s all about money because of your pathetic, narrow-minded view of value. I’m not pissed about the money, or the cards, but this?”

I hold up my wallet so the little butterfly dangles from the corner. Her dark eyes dart to it.

“I’d startwarsover this, you rat.”

I step back. She slouches down the wall, coughing sharply and touching her throat with her own palm. “You’re crazy,” she gasps wetly.

“And you, what are you? Just a street thief? Have prostitutes upgraded since I last went looking for tail?” There’s no denying her beauty. In fact, she’s quite stunning in a dirty sort of way. If she was cleaned up and appropriately dressed, she’d crush the hearts of a dozen men with one glance.

“Fuck you,” the woman spits. “I’m not a whore.”

“Boss.” One of my guards steps forward before I can reply. He slides his hand over his gun and the woman’s eyes dart down to it immediately. “You want me to take care of this? You’ve got places to be.”

As he speaks, my attention never leaves her. She doesn’t flinch at the sight of the gun. Maybe she really isn’t scared to die.

Frederick is right. I have places to be. And yet, somehow, I can’t bring myself to walk away because another idea is forming in my mind. A street rat with no family and no value outside of what she steals from others.

She may be the perfect solution to a pressing problem.

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