Page 65 of Ruthless God

My gaze trails upward, landing on her high ponytail. Blonde strands sway with her movements, baring the delicate curve of her neck. And that? That’s a problem.

Because I’ve always had a thing for lovely necks.

Especially when they’re covered in bruises.

From my teeth.

A dark pulse of something primitive curls in my gut, sharp and unbidden. I exhale slowly, pushing it down. Now is not the time. But soon? Soon, she’ll learn exactly what kind of man I am.

She finally comes to a stop, settling into the chair next to me. The chair no one else dares to sit in. No one has sat there since Gabriel because it was his chair. Something dark and sharp courses through me, twisting deep in my chest. I don’t know what it is, only that I don’t like it. But maybe it’s fitting. Maybe she belongs there because the man pretending to be Gabriel is the reason she’s sitting here at all.

She exhales, shifting slightly, clearly preparing to speak.

“So—”

“I—”

We both stop. A beat of silence. Then, to my surprise, we share an awkward chuckle. It feels strange coming from me. From her. From this whole situation.

She recovers first.

“You first,” she says, tipping her chin slightly, waiting.

I lean forward, resting my forearms on my thighs, studying her.

“I said I would give you answers.”

Her posture straightens.

“This is what I’ve managed to find out so far,” I continue, voice even. “About the man who visited your club five months ago.”

The man she thought was my brother.

The man who isn’t.

Her breath catches, making me think she’s ready for the truth. The question is—is she ready for all of it?

I push the folder across the coffee table to her. She reaches for it, folder trembling slightly in her grip. Slowly, she opens it, lifting the photo first. Her brows furrow, and the confusion in her eyes borders on panic.

“That’s not him,” she insists.

“It is.”

Her fingers tighten around the paper, knuckles going white. “No. I saw his face.”

Her cheeks pinken, and I don’t miss the way she shifts slightly in her seat. I lean back, watching her, studying the reaction. And then I recall what the text message said…

“Something you’re not telling me?”

She swallows hard, setting the folder down with too much hesitation, as if she doesn’t want me to know something.

“I danced for him,” she says finally, voice low. “I was close enough to remember every detail.”

I lift a brow. “That close?”

She glares. I smirk.

“My team is good,” I continue, keeping my tone steady, unwavering. “This is the man. And I suspect he’s also the same man who is after your father and the entire Brotherhood.”

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