Page 5 of Shattered Fate

I debate leaving her to fend for herself—she’s going to have to learn at some point—but Max’s request slaps me in the face, and I feel like shit, imagining his unhappy scowl.

Without thinking another second, I scramble across the street, a yellow taxi almost clipping my thigh in its effort to run a red light.

“Leave her alone, you fucking vultures.” My foot hits the sidewalk and they all turn to me, my size shutting them up real quick. I didn’t tell you I’m six-three and two hundred and twenty pounds of solid muscle, and if you look real close, you can see the edges of my tattoo sleeves if my cuffs ride up and reveal my wrists.

Yep. I described myself as a biker bar on a Saturday night. You thought it was just an expression, but it’s where I really hang out. Don’t ride a hog though because I bring Baby almost everywhere I go.

One brave pap tries to snap my picture, but I step forward and he thinks better of it. He runs and they all scatter like cockroaches.

Dirty fuckers.

Zarah stands there, petite little thing, her lips trembling, tears wetting her cheeks. A purse hangs from the crook of her arm, her hair a messy halo around her head. Her heels are a mile high, but they still can’t help her compete with my height and I tower over her.

Her eyes are tar pits, black and liquid, and I fall in, or I’m about to. I don’t think any man could resist.

My brother sure as hell hadn’t, and that jerks me out of my haze.

Zarah Maddox was my brother’s lover.

“Are you okay?” I force the words out so I can leave. She’s alone and I look past her shoulder, search for a bodyguard or that companion who seems to be in all the tabloid shots, glued to Zarah’s side, but no one’s running down the sidewalk, no car service coming to her aid. We’re alone near the building she owns, Maddox Industries casting a shadow over us.

She opens her mouth, I guess to answer me, but instead, she crumples to the sidewalk in a cloud of misery and money and starts to cry.

CHAPTER TWO

Zarah

He lowers next to me, like sitting in the middle of the sidewalk is the most natural thing in the world.

I recognize his face, but I can’t place him. I know enough not to be scared, but my thready memory of him is misty with anger and blame and while I’m relieved he didn’t leave me alone, I wish he would have because whatever made him mad at me probably hasn’t gone away.

He hands me a rumpled tissue, and I wipe my face. I don’t want to meet his eyes, but I can’t hide. I can’t get better if I hide, and I raise my gaze to meet his flinty hazel stare. His features pull at me, but my brain is a sieve, latching on to some things, letting others slip out.

My doctor says my mind is protecting me, and if I can’t remember him, we might have been in a confrontation or conflict I’m trying to shut out. His expression isn’t kind, but it’s not mean. That’s not proof I can trust him not to hurt me, though, and I wait for my body to give me some kind of sign, a warning I should get away, but there’s nothing. He chased off thepaparazzi when he could have let them harass me. That will have to be enough.

A dead brown leaf scrapes by us on the sidewalk, and I think we must look a pair sitting on the ground.

“Thank you for helping me.” I don’t know how the afternoon got so out of hand. I’d been doing so well, then that pack of rabid reporters saw me alone.

“Where are your handlers, Miss Maddox?” he asks, his voice low and smooth, a touch of accent revealing he grew up on the poor side of the city.

Of course he would know who I am. Even if I wasn’t the daughter of the founder of Maddox Industries, I’ve been in the news enough to last a hundred lifetimes.

I lift my chin. I’m nearly twenty-seven years old. I can be out for an afternoon alone, but a normal woman would have been okay if a group of photographers had wanted to take her picture, maybe even posing and answering their questions to move them along. This man would know I’m lying. He knows me, knows I’m babysat twenty-four hours a day.

“Miss Maddox?” he prompts.

I hate when people call me that, but his voice is gentle and his eyes are sympathetic and for some reason, I’m compelled to tell him the truth. “This was supposed to be an experiment. A couple of hours to myself. I guess it didn’t work.” I sigh and dab my cheeks.

“You have some time?”

I dig my phone out of my purse and glance at the screen. I’m supposed to meet Douglas in front of our building at three, and he’ll drive me home. “I have forty-five minutes.”

“Would you like to get a coffee?” He holds out a hand. “Do you remember me? I’m Gage Davenport, Max’s brother. We met—”

I remember how we met, and I flinch and struggle to my feet, wobbling in my heels. Gage. The jerk who blamed us for Max’s death and wouldn’t let Zane and me attend Max’s funeral.

“You hate me,” I say, my chest heaving. I should run away, but he hoists himself to his feet and I need every ounce of willpower I have to keep from flinging myself at him and begging him to hold me. He could protect me from everything.

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