Page 7 of Widow's Walk

“And you couldn’t detain her without spilling blood?” His voice drips with hardly controlled fury.

“She went fucking crazy,” the fool blurts out, sealing his fate.

Somehow, it gets even quieter. Blackwell turns his head slightly, his expression carved from ice. I should shiver, should cower at the sheer menace radiating from him. But instead, my breath shallows, and I think I might be a little turned on. Okay, so there’s no doubt. I’m fucking turned on.

To make grown men tremble like cowards from one single look? That’s the kind of power I crave.

“She killed Ian, sir,” someone timidly mutters, hand still clenched too tightly on my arm. I grin viciously. “One of our men, sir,” he reiterates.

The whole room holds its breath when Blackwell shifts. He stalks toward the speaker with the same quiet threat he used before. “So, it’s not her blood?”

“Not all of it.” His voice shakes.

“Then I will ask one final time, and you better have an answer for me.” Blackwell’s tone is flat, which is worse. It’s the calm before the storm. “Why. The fuck. Is she bleeding?”

The little bitch doesn’t answer fast enough. In a blink, Blackwell’s hand is fisted in the man’s collar, yanking him forward. The barrel of a gun is pressed to his temple before anyone can react.

The poor bastard is now shaking in his boots. “Because someone hit her!” he rushes out.

There it is.

A sudden trickle reaches my ears. Then the scent of urine hits my nose. My smile stretches as I glance down just in time to see it. Liquid spreading over the polished floor. The man is actually pissing himself.

I look up at Blackwell in envy. His lip curls up in disgust and he shoves the guy away. He looks down at the piss puddle like it’s personally offended him and takes a sidestep to avoid it.

“Point him out,” he says evenly.

It takes no more coercion for the little pisser to point out the guilty party. Blackwell swivels his head, eyes slicing through the room. Then his gaze cuts back to me. Holds it with dark intensity. For a long moment, we stare at each other. Unblinking.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he lifts his gun and pivots slightly. My grin twitches as if encouraging him to do it. He pulls the trigger. The sound is deafening, but Blackwell doesn’t even flinch.

I turn slightly to see the body hit the floor like a sack of shit.He just shot a man without looking, and didn’t miss. Well, fuck me. As soon as I’m satisfied, I dart my eyes back to Blackwell’s.

“Leave us,” he says with his eyes still on me as if they never left.

“Sir, do you—”

“I said leave us,” he says with finality. No one dares to ignore him.

I hear the sound of the body being dragged away, then the door shuts with an ominous thud, sealing us in silence.

He leans back against the desk, untouched by the violence he enacted, his bespoke suit still pristine. Probably the same one from earlier.

The tension builds, and the only sound is my labored breathing. I shift, trying to keep my balance as my legs tremble and my wrists burn. But I stand tall when my instincts have me wanting to crouch in a defensive stance.

He watches me as if I’m a cornered animal. “I guess we should have tranqed you.”

I show my teeth. The audacity. I mean, yes, I am feral, but how dare he even think of darting me like some kind of animal!

My resolve almost falters when I catch one corner of his mouth twitching. A flicker of amusement he’s trying to suppress.

Fine. He wants a show?

He approaches me with confident, unhurried steps. Totally unaware he’s stepping right into a lioness’s den. A lioness who is thirsting for blood.

He stops, leaving a foot of air between us. Only my eyes move, locking with his. He remains tranquil and calm, and it makes mewant to scream. How can he be so unshakable when I am boiling inside?

He reaches for the gag but pauses mid-air. “Do not bite me,” he warns with a baritone that spears a chill right through me.

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