Page 41 of Ruling Scar
“Who?”
“Leopold Stuart,” I enunciate again. I’ve said the bastard’s name over and over again, rolling the name around. “He’s my mortal enemy.”
“I thought your mortal enemy was currently in Oxford?”
“My newest mortal enemy,” I correct.
“You mean your latest.”
It’s the way of the world. If you don’t have a new enemy then you’re not worthy of your station.
“What’s this one done?” Roma asks.
What’s he not done? The moment Leonora left, I got down to business. First I called Uncle Dima and informed him the Stuarts were no longer playing nice.
“The Stuarts?” he sighed. “The posh pricks?”
“The one and only.”
I didn’t have to see him to know his disbelief. He’s never not followed up on a threat, though. It’s why he’s so damn good at his job. “Where’s this intel from?”
“A credible source.”
“Elijah.”
“Uncle.” He cursed under his breath and hung up, allowing me to move forward in my research.
Leopold Stuart is a prime example of a British twat. Though, technically he’s like me, a dual citizen of the UK and US. Born and raised here, he appears to travel back to his family’s stronghold every chance he gets.
Digging into his social media, there’s nothing indicating he likes scaring young women. But I know all about looks being deceiving.
Let’s see how he likes being on the receiving end.
“Did you hear Nat’s pregnant?”
The question pulls me from my reverie. “What?”
I dig my phone out of my pocket.
Elijah: Why didn’t you tell me you’re going to be an aunt?
She leaves me on read, something she’s annoyingly apt to do.
A year ago she texted me, taking me by surprise. In response I began to text her every so often, enjoying the game of will she or won’t she text back. It’s one of the best, and most aggravating, games I’ve ever played.
“Nat’s pregnant,” Roma repeats.
“She’s a lesbian.”
“Lesbians can in fact get pregnant.”
I set the cigar on an ashtray and head for the door. Albert and Roma rush to follow. I don’t care if my brother gets frostbite, though. There’s an alert that someone’s at the door.
“Hi.” Russet pushes past me, wrapping her arms around the dog.
“Where’s Sailor?” I ask.
“It’s cold out,” Roma says with a glare.
