Page 13 of Easton’s Claim

He stepped into the light so the prisoner could see him. Greg groaned and raised his head, struggled to open his swollen eyes, his hands bound to the chair he sat on. Blood spilled down his lips and chin and his breathing was choppy.

“From the way you hightailed it back here, I guess you heard the news that I was out,” Brandon said softly, folding his arms as he stood in front of his hostage. He’d lost years of his life in jail because of this piece of shit. Time for payback. “Too bad you weren’t quick enough to get what you needed and then skip town.”

Greg dragged in a painful breath and leaned forward to spit out a mouthful of blood.

Brandon smiled at the sight.Oh, how the mighty have fallen.It filled him with a sense of vengeance to see his old enemy this way. Helpless and afraid. Wondering what would happen to him, unsure how far Brandon would go. But as sheriff Greg had been the one to put him behind bars, and had the unique privilege of knowing exactly what Brandon did to people who dared cross him.

Four years in federal prison. Four years of living with a depraved cellmate, of having every freedom stripped away. Of having to strip naked and have his ass searched. While the motherfucker in front of him had been free to live off his parents’ wealth and do whatever he wanted—which turned out to be fucking up his life royally.

Brandon loathed Greg and his kind. A rich, trust-fund baby born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Parents respected professionals connected to society’s elite. They’d bought him a new car when Greg had gotten his license at age sixteen. They’d paid for his college education and a swanky apartment off campus. They’d done everything but wipe his fucking ass for him. And how did their son repay them?

By snorting all the money they gave him up his nose and becoming the worst embarrassment Sugar Hollow had ever seen.

It disgusted Brandon. He’d been born poor and had stayed poor until he started running drugs at the age of twelve, after escaping one abusive foster home too many.

That kind of poverty left its mark. He still smelled the stink of it when he woke up every morning. He still remembered the grinding pain of hunger when he went to bed at night. Even when his stomach was full, that grinding sensation was always in the back of his mind. He’d vowed at age fourteen to make sure he never lived like that again. For fifteen years, he’d had a good life. Financial security.

Until this fucked-up loser had taken everything from him with the arrest.

Brandon pulled in a deep breath and released it slowly, letting the anger drain away. Anger clouded his judgment. For this he needed to be calm, in control. Greg had betrayed him, used him to get product and then turned on him to save his own skin. He would pay. “I want what’s mine. What you took from me.”

Those swollen, bruised eyes focused on him. “I don’t have it,” he slurred out of busted lips.

“But you know where it is.”

He shook his head slowly, winced. “No.”

“Bullshit.” Brandon was going to establish himself back into DC’s drug scene. He’d lost face, respect of the people who’d once feared and admired him. He was going to make a name for himself again, gain back the power he’d lost, and keep rising.

“I looked. Couldn’t…find it,” he wheezed.

Brandon balled his hands into fists, battled the urge to let his hired muscle break a few more bones in that pathetic face. “You will.”

He was going to make Greg suffer for what he’d done to him. Beginning with taking back everything that was stolen from him without his knowledge. While in prison he’d toyed with the idea of targeting Greg’s parents, the wealthy philanthropists who’d created the ungrateful bastard before him now. But that would bring a shit ton of heat down on him and it was too risky when he was just beginning his climb back into the trade.

“Can’t,” Greg rasped.

His temper snapped. He marched forward and grabbed a handful of Greg’s hair, yanked hard and jerked the asshole’s head back. “You didn’t think I’d find out what you’d done? That I’d forget while I rotted in the prison you helped put me in?” He shook his head, let Greg see the rage inside him. “I don’t forget. Ever. So you’re going to find what you took, and you’re going to give it back to me.” Then he’d die.

Greg’s throat moved in a jerky motion as he swallowed, the stink of fear rolling off him in waves. “I don’t know where it is,” he insisted.

“Your ex will.”

Those bruised, bloodshot eyes locked on his. “She doesn’t…know anything.”

“She’ll know where the furniture is. I’m sure she could be…motivated to find it for me.”

Greg scoffed and huffed out a dry laugh. “She doesn’t know shit about what I did.”

Maybe not, but Brandon could still use her. “Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

Greg glared up at him in defiance and managed a slight shrug. “There’s no point going after her. She means nothing to me and it’s not going to get you what you want.”

The words sounded real enough, but Brandon caught the spark of fear in those deep blue eyes, and it told him everything he needed to know. The pathetic son of a bitch was lying through his teeth. Greg still loved her, was trying to protect her even now.

It was almost laughable. Everyone knew how his ex had up and bailed on his pathetic ass over a year ago. Brandon had never imagined gaining leverage against him so easily, having such powerful leverage at his disposal.

Brandon released Greg’s hair with a cruel jerk and stepped back, a hard, ruthless ball of anger forming in his gut. If he wanted to gain the attention and admiration of the top cartel members in DC, he had to up his game.

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