Page 36 of Widow's Walk

Her nonchalance has me counting to three before opening my mouth again. I may not have a total grasp of understanding her, but I do know that if I demand anything from her, she will onlydig her heels in deeper. She’s a creature who bends for no one, but if I change tactics, she might tilt for me.

“Sinclair. I’m asking you.” I pause, my eye contact with her firm and unflinching. “Please, do not put yourself in immediate danger like that ever again. I do not want to see you hurt.”

Something in my voice must reach her. She breaks character for a fleeting moment. Something flickers across her face before she can smother it.

“I can try, but I can’t promise you anything.” She tries for steeliness, but she’s so transparent right now.

Knowing when to quit while I’m ahead when it comes to her, I move on. “So, is our guest a souvenir, or is there a purpose to detaining him?”

She looks at me as if startled by my question. “Haven’t you questioned him yet?”

“Question him? For what exactly?” I counter, frowning.

Her expression runs the gamut—shock, suspicion, accusation, disappointment. Then she gets serious before speaking again. “This was planned, Blackwell. Any idea who?” I don’t answer. “Alright.” She wipes her hands on the towel as she stands up and stretches with effortless grace, showing off the tops of her tight thighs. “I’m going to get dressed, then we’re going to go and question him.” She even adds a little nod at the end and walks off as if she’s calling the shots.

Normally, no one outside my bloodline dictates my next move, but Sinclair may be the exception I’m willing to entertain.

I wait at the bottom of the stairs after changing into a suit, glancing at my watch with impatience. Sinclair appears only minutes later, dressed in black head-to-toe. Her pants like second skin, hugging the trim curve of her waist, a sheer long-sleeved top with thumb holes, another pair of thick-soled boots, and a leather jacket dangling from one hand.

Her makeup is a toned-down version of her usual dark look, and her platinum hair is pulled back into a low, slick ponytail. If looks could kill, we’d all be on our knees.

Something reckless stirs in me. A compulsion to tell her how fucking good she looks. How there’s a fiery halo wrapped around her. But I choose to bite it back and turn for the back of the estate without a word.

She shrugs on her jacket as we enter the chill of the early afternoon. Scout is waiting on an ATV next to an unoccupied one sitting, idling. I hop onto the empty one and expect Sinclair to join me, but she goes right up to Scout and says, “Thanks for keeping it warm, but I got it from here, Scout.”

Scout cuts his eyes to me waiting on permission, and for fuck’s sake, I nod. His nostrils flare with agitation before he dismounts.

Sinclair flashes me a Cheshire grin, swings her leg over, and revs the engine. “Race you there,” she tosses over her shoulder, then bolts off as if knowing where she’s going. I swear under my breath before gunning it.

Minutes later, we come to a screeching halt near the containment building. Sinclair hops off her vehicle and runs her hands over her hair, smoothing down the flyaways.

“Holy fuck, my face is frozen,” she huffs, breathlessly.

I catch Spade approaching us as if waiting, a large black bag slung over his shoulder. He looks as wary as I feel. “What’s that?” I ask.

“My supplies,” Sinclair answers with a toothy grin. “Thanks, Spades.” She flashes him a wink before turning her attention to me. “Shall we?”

My instincts light up like a goddamn inferno. I stalk over to Spade, my voice low. “Open it,” I demand.

Spade promptly unzips the bag and opens the top for me to get a good view of the contents inside. When I recognize what they are, I level a grim look at Sinclair.

“What?” she says innocently, shrugging her shoulders.

“What are these for?”

“For interrogation, obviously,” she sasses.

Considering they aren’t ticking time bombs, I stifle a growl in my throat and lead us all inside. It’s a one-story brick building built like a bunker, windowless with only one way in and one way out.

Inside, her prize sits slumped in a chair, bound wrist-to-ankle, his head hanging low. From the looks of it and the dried blood covering his face and chest, it seems as if Sinclair beat most of the fight out of him already.

And judging by the way Sinclair is chomping at the bit and strolling forward, last night was only a warm-up.

“Would it be possible to get him up?” she asks sweetly, peeling her jacket off and tossing it on the metal table full of tools.

She draws me in with her effortless authority that I decide to let her take point. So, I turn to Scout and mutter, “Just do as she says,” while I settle in to watch the circus unfold.

“Spade?” she calls out, crooking a finger, and he approaches with the large bag. “Right there is fine.” My eyes narrow as he sets the bag down obediently, as if he is entirely under her command. I’ll have to arrange a new guy for her. I don’t need anyonetooloyal to her. After my father, everyone answers to me.

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