Page 45 of Property of Saint

A grin starts slowly, then widens as it spreads across Bullseye’s face. “Give him a false sense of security.”

Tempest chuckles softly. “Like your thinking, VP.”

Freak slaps his hand on the table. “It will put him off balance as well. He can’t know whether we suspect anything or not, and she’ll be a loose cannon that he can’t control.”

“And if he’s innocent, then we end the woman then and there.” Woody wants the blood of the person who maligned his sponsee. Again, my hands clench, but I keep them under the table.

Even if Pippa’s been totally honest, and Gris is a viper in the grass, I still can’t see any way that there’s going to be a happily ever after for her, and definitely no us. That the seed I might have planted would have a chance to take root, or that I could end up playing happy families. Something I never wanted up until now, I could never see myself as a one-man woman, or with rug rats getting underfoot. Maybe it’s because it’s impossible it could ever work out with Pippa that I’m thinking these thoughts. That I could actually have a relationship with her and make her my property.

Chances are, Gris will find some explanation that’s acceptable to the club, and she’ll be dead before darkness falls tonight.

“Let’s get this done.” Bullseye bangs the gavel. “Tempest, you go get the woman. Woody, it makes sense if you go get Gris. He knows you’re on his side and is less likely to be worried about being invited to the barn.”

“I tell him we’re bringing her there?”

Prez nods. “Yeah. Tell him no one gets away with fucking with a King, even a prospect. Everyone else, let’s get to the barn and get ready for the entertainment.”

Standing along with everyone else, I can’t help but be glad it’s not me who’s been sent to get her and bring her down. How could I, when my dick’s still sticky with our joint releases, and how, as each minute passes, she seems to be worming herself deeper and deeper inside my head.Into my heart?Fuck no. I’m Saint. I’m not even sure I possess one.

The barn in question is at the back of the property, far away from prying eyes. The walls have been reinforced and soundproofed. Tools of our trade lie around, and there’s many a time we’ve left here without the same number of bodies still breathing as those who went in.

The floor is covered in a sheet of plastic, an obvious giveaway as to why we’d bring anyone here. Chains hang from the sturdy overhead beams, and a strong metal chair is anchored to the floor. The air has a taint of something metallic. We can, and do, any manner of things here that would turn the stomach of the average citizen, but all to protect the club, and those who are stupid enough to fuck with us.

No one fucks with the Kingsis not just our motto. It’s our way of life.

A sound comes through the open door, one that’s not hard to interpret. It’s not the even footsteps of an able-bodied person, but that clatter of a crutch on the gravel. I tense, seeing Tempest’s arm is supporting her as Pippa walks in, but tamp down my anger, knowing it’s from expediency. If he hadn’t helped her, the uneven ground would probably have seen her fall on her face.

Her eyes immediately find mine, and her brows rise in question. Now I regret not being the one to bring her here. I could have given her an explanation, something to soften the fear that starts to transform her features as she takes in her surroundings. When Tempest leads her to the chair, and Freak steps up, fastening her wrists to it with metal cuffs, then usesiron chains to secure her ankles, I see a tremor go through her, but only momentarily. When her gaze lands on me again, her expression changes to stoicism, and her back straightens. Perhaps it’s only me who can see that the emotion in her eyes is sadness, and regret.For what might have been between us?Or am I just superimposing my own emotions onto hers?She could hate me already and probably will after tonight.Whatever is going to happen here, I can do nothing to stop it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

PHILLIPA

I’m good at reading people, I have to be. And while he might not know he’s doing it, Saint’s eyes are displaying a myriad of emotion. I might be imagining things, but I’m sure I can read he’s trying to transmit that he’s not complicit with whatever it is that’s going to happen here. That it’s out of his control.

Of course, that might be wishful thinking. Saint had stormed out of his room after one of the deepest, most meaningful sexual experiences that I’ve ever felt. Maybe to him, it was normal, to me, it was exceptional, and I’d felt our bodies had connected on a deep level, even though on the surface, we’re destined to be mortal enemies.

He’d come inside me with nothing between us, and with the time that had lapsed since I was last able to take protection, there’s a good chance I might already be incubating his child. A thought that should fill me with horror, my career comes first, a family, a house with a picket fence was not on my agenda until I’d proved myself to… well, even now I’m not quite sure who I’ve been trying to impress all the time that I’ve been alive. However hard I’ve tried, no one has ever praised me on my achievementsor given me any recognition at all. Each good exam result was simply taken as given, and each career advancement just an expectation I’d reached but never surpassed. Now, probably moments from the Kings ending my life, I suddenly realise I’m worth more than constantly striving to be the best. I deserve to live, to enjoy life, to have fun. And it’s Saint who rescued me, who may well have brought me to my senses.

But Saint’s a man I can’t have. There’s no way he read as much as I did into our one and only sexual encounter, and his lack of taking precautions is only that he knew this was coming, my death.

I don’t even resent him, or his brothers. I’m the enemy, a Secret Service agent they only recognise as a Fed, as law enforcement, out to entrap and ensnare them. I only regret that if they side with the prospect, they’ll be keeping a traitor within their ranks. And though I might not agree with what they do to survive, I’d prefer to give them a chance, to reveal that they’ve embraced a member of a rival into their club. But, it seems, they don’t believe me.

The door opens, and in comes the man they call Gris, who I know as Skunk. He saunters in, his left arm in a sling, Woody, who I remember from beating at poker, beside him, with a brotherly arm across his shoulder, as if to mentally and physically support him. And it’s that moment I know I’m not going to go down without a fight.It’s me or him.

A thought niggles at me.If I wanted to learn the truth, I’d probably pit accuser against accused and see who came out on top.Maybe this isn’t my death sentence, but their caution against immediately turning on one of their own. What I say, and how well he offers his excuses, may yet determine which of us stays alive.

I gear up to give the performance of my life.

He doesn’t immediately notice me; he’s too wrapped up in speaking to the man next to him. I spot the very moment he does, as a flicker of concern crosses his face, which could be missed by anyone not watching carefully, as it’s immediately replaced by hate and defiance.

I take the initiative. “Well, hi, Skunk.”

My use of his name triggers him. In a flash, he crosses the room, and my words are rewarded with a backhand across my face that makes me see stars and would have seen my chair toppled were it not bolted to the ground.

Head spinning, I’m only just aware that he’s pulled back his hand, and brace for another hit, when someone wrenches his hand behind him.

“That’s enough.” I recognise it’s Freak who’s talking.

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