Page 96 of Prodigal Son

She turned to regard him, though he still couldn’t see her face. Unsettling. “We can’t all be as heartless as you, Charlie.”

He straightened. His thoughts strayed back to the day he’d arrived in London, when he’d met her in that café: raindrops on the windows, clink of mugs in saucers, Eden slicked-back and chic and unattainable across the table from him. He’d thought her indifferent, then, but that outfit and that cool façade had been her armor. Protection against whatever bad memories he’d stirred up.

Or maybe good memories. Maybe that was the problem.

“You really cared about me,” he said, the realization blooming like a sunrise, so bright it left him squinting and wanting to turn away. Lots of people had a lot of emotions about him, but most of them were bad. He’d never had any idea what to do with love or affection. He suspected that was why he’d always resented the hell out of his mother.

“Of course I did, you idiot.”

He turned away, feeling the weight of her gaze, a little glad that he couldn’t see her expression. He suspected she was glad of that, too.

“I’m very good at what I do,” he said.

She didn’t respond.

“I’m the one with the level head. I always get the job done – no clutter, no stress. I don’t ever…” The tightness was coming back. “Shit. Maybe I’m finally losing my nerve after all this time.” A hollow chuckle that hurt his throat.

She sighed. “No, you’re not.”

“Dr. Adkins over here.”

“You came home,” she said. “You’re cold, yeah, I’ll give you that. And efficient, all of that. But home doesn’t care about the walls you’ve built up out in the rest of the world. You came back to your old haunt, and your old man, and your ex…whatever I was. And things are complicated for you here. This is your family, Charlie. I’d think you were a sociopath if this whole thing wasn’t difficult for you.”

He let her words sink in. Actually comforting.

“They took my little sister,” he said quietly.

“I know. Let’s quit standing around in the dark and go get her back, okay?”

He leaned over and nudged her shoulder with his. She didn’t lean away. “Okay.”

Twenty-Eight

“Thank you.” Ryan’s hands shook as she reached for the teacup Raven offered her.

They were in the big conference room across from Phil’s office, its Victorian fixtures and crackling fire unspeakably soothing. Down below, the pub had reached the fever pitch before last call; Raven found the low vibrations of it a comfort; danger didn’t seem so prevalent when you were surrounded by raucous humanity.

The first person Raven had run into upon their return to Baskerville Hall had been Axelle, face like a thundercloud. She looked much the same now, pacing the length of the room with her arms folded, shooting Raven the occasional dirty look.

“I still can’t believe you took my bike,” Phillip said for the third time. His tone fell somewhere between disapproving and proud. “I can’t believe Tommy helped you.”

“So you keep saying,” Tommy said. He sat at the far end of the table, leaned back with his chair balanced on two legs, unrepentant.

“It handles beautifully.” Raven shot him a grin. “You should get out from behind that bloody desk of yours and ride it more. Be a real biker again and not just a mob boss.”

Phil lifted his brows and tipped his head a fraction toward Ryan.

Who was currently glancing between them with a blank sort of shock.

“Ry,” Raven said, “this is my brother Phillip. He runs the London Lean Dogs.”

“Jesus,” Tommy said with a laugh. “Sis ison firetonight.”

“Raven,” Phillip warned.

“That’s just a fact: you are the president. Your existence isn’t the thing you’ll wind up in jail for.”

He sighed.

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