Page 17 of Recurve Ridge

“Grow a pair.”

“Pathetic. I could hear you whiny bitches going at it like a married couple a mile off.” Alan appeared in a crouch by my feet, his honed hunting knife drawn across his knees.

He was perfectly placed to rise and gut either of us—or both of us—before we knew he was there.

Miller jerked back. “Creepy little fucker.”

“You love it.” Alan rose in a smooth movement, sheathing his blade. “What do we do?”

“Who did you leave guarding Mari?” I searched the darkness between the trees for any trace of the evil dwelling too close to my doorstep for comfort. One misstep over that boundary line, and I’d take pleasure in ending my neighbor’s life.

Until today, I’d have called myself a melodramatic asshole, but now….

“Don’t get your knickerbockers in a twist. Jon’s watching her.”

Not really. Or not in my bedroom, at least. I hoped. The chances of Mari accepting the presence of unknown men as soon as she woke clenched something inside my chest.

“What the fuck are knickerbockers?”

“I love you, too, darling.” Alan batted his eyelashes at Miller. “I thought that since we have an expat in the house, I should perhaps brush up on my British lingo.”

“Stupid ass.” Miller snorted and turned away, his hands flexing at his sides.

I should try to ease his concern, but I harbored the same gut feelings even if I didn’t believe Mari was a threat.

“We should go back.”

“Yes, sir.” Miller pivoted on his heel and stomped through the woods with all the grace of an addict on the way to his next hit. Though his type of fix couldn’t be found in the direction he was headed.

Exhaling hard through my teeth, I motioned for Alan to follow my ex-troop. My aim had been to get a little closer to Gideon’s compound, maybe sneak a peek behind his walls, but my desires didn’t make my words to Miller any less pertinent. If one of us had to head back to NYC and risk raising the attention of my nemesis there, it would mean facing simultaneous battles on dual fronts.

“Come on.”

Alan stood on the spot, ignoring Miller’s temper tantrum. “I’ll find out who’s home, if you need.” He offered the solo mission up like an easy traipse through the woods, not a solitary suicide run if he were caught.

I held his stare long enough for him to drop his head. “Not tonight. I need you in the house to settle the others when she… talks.”Or I make her talk.

Not that I took pleasure in the idea of forcing a traumatized woman to do anything. Still, Miller’s ongoing silence and orchestra of huffs reminded me of the potential threat she posed, pretty package she looked or not.

“Maybe tomorrow?” He perked back up like a kid desperate for a treat.

I narrowed my gaze. “Housebound, huh?”

“A little.” He offered a wink and an ass wiggle as he followed Miller’s path with all the fanfare and stomping steps but in utter silence. “Let me out?”

Message received.

“To run amok?” I smiled, though he couldn’t see it. “We’ll see.”

* * *

Several additional hoursafter dealing with Miller’s personal brand of torture in the art of charged silence andnotwhining, I sent him and Will out on a barest-minimum reconnaissance mission. I checked the windows every few minutes, but the cleared area around the house remained exactly that.

“Is she okay in there?” Alan asked in a casual voice, mixing me a cocktail I hadn’t ordered. “Want me to check on her?”

A sound that might be a growl but that came out as a reluctant laugh surprised us both. Alan twirled away, making extra drinks for the hell of it, or so it appeared.

I kept the bar well stocked, a feature that ran the full length of the open-plan combined living-and-kitchen area, created post-build for one purpose. Not because we needed the distraction of alcohol or kept it as an emotional crutch, but because it gave Alan something to do with his hands. Dancing and fixing drinks were his way to deal with the shitty hand life dealt him.

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