Page 35 of The Brotherhood

“I had phone numbers on speed dial. For efficiency.”

“It’s fine,” he said softly, her defeated tone meandering its way through his bloodstream. “I’ll instruct them to search for another way to reach them.” He eyed her nervous hands twisting in her lap. “And if that doesn’t work, I will bring you to him myself after we return from Gobi.”

He stood when she gasped, “Really?” her joy hitting his system like a drug. One he loved and hated in the same breath.

“Unless you prefer to stay with me,” he joked, making his way to the bar for one more drink, her musical laughter dancing in his blood.

“Not that I don’t love your company, Mr. Mayhem, but I know I’m terribly missed.”

“My name is Sinrik.”

“Oh,” she said, with light curiosity. “Very interesting name.”

“My friends call me Sin.” She shot out a laugh as he poured his drink.

“How about Rick?”

He shook his head. “The people I kill call me that.”

Another laugh. “I’ll call you Sinrik if that’s okay.”

It was very okay. “That works.” He downed the shot and saluted her with the empty glass. “Hopefully before I deliver you to your highly missed life, I’ll learn why you felt the need to wreck into mine.” More likewreckhis fucking life. “You’ll sleep in here,” he muttered, setting the glass in the sink.

“What?” she protested. “That couch is perfectly fine.”

He shook his head. “You forget about your little disease, MissSwamp,” he muttered, crossing his arms over his chest.

“My disease,” she muttered with a clueless look.

“I’m infected,” he said, realizing the two shots had loosened more than his guts. “Wouldn’t want to do something a husband would likely kill me for.” Because he damn sure would. If said husband wasn’t already dead.

“Excuse me while I grab a shower.”

Fuck. He’d just wished a man dead.

CHAPTER 9

Spar and Scar

Spar moved through the swamp, closing in on Scarlett, his little angelic prey.

For three days, he’d kept his distance. Three days he’d ignored the way his instincts had sharpened, changed, and evolved in regard to her. He told himself he could let her go. She wanted to be married to a dumb robot, fine. Do it. Be his fucking guest.

And then, he took that bat-bite.

The day after, she called. He had to fake an illness when the sound of her voice nearly gave him a fucking orgasm. Told her to call later.

She did. He avoided it.

She called again. He avoided it.

She cameoverbecause she’s a fucking angel. And in his new hyper awareness, he saw his suspicions about her were a thousand percent accurate. She fucking liked him. Shewantedhim. And that blood-boiling, cock-jerking revelation had required him to send her away. Pissed that he had to. Pissed that she committed herself to that cyborg.

He’d been an outright asshole to her and vowed to explain himself the second he had his shit together, butthatnever happened and maybe never would where she was concerned. And the second he’d heard she’d taken her saintly ass into the swamp alone to check on families, his commitment to doing the right thing blew apart with his anger.

His boots crushed damp leaves as he approached, spotting her on the porch of Mr. Lemaire’s small wooden house.

She knocked softly, calling out a greeting. Her scent hit him first. It was always the first thing now. Linen. Rain. Something softer. Something he shouldn’t have been able to track—but could.

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