Page 18 of Hearts Held
Marching into the building, I hear the hollering and cheers across the first floor. There are various areas with a multitude of card tables, leaderboards and other gambling materials to waste money on.
Swiftly moving up the grand staircase, I see the top floor divides into three passageways. The ones on the far side appear to lead to more gaming areas, so I take the hallway forward and find another staircase made of marble, yet smaller than the entranceway’s. It leads to a pristine office area.
So I calm my nerves as best as I can and begin my ascent.
As I focus on the sound of my footsteps, I hold on to the anger that is driving my courage to speak up for what is right. A young man sits outside a line of glassed offices with either closed or open curtains, the latter revealing mahogany bookshelves, oak desks and a plethora of expensive office items. Some glass offices have large conference tables with esteemed paintings.
The man ceases his work and peers up towards me. “Who goes there?” he asks.
“I want to speak with the owner, please,” I boldly state.
Bobby catches up to me and pleads softly, “Brielle, I don’t think this is a good idea. My brain’s working properly now and I don’t want you to get killed. There is still time to turn back, and maybe I can answer your questions.”
I raise my eyebrows at him. “You gonna let them kill me, Bobby?”
He whistles. “Brielle, you are something else. I haven’t seen you riled up like this before, but my brother isn’t referred to as the Dragon or Ice Adder for nothing. I’ll try to protect you but can’t make no guarantees.” He nods at the young man in the matching tweed suit. Who still appears confused by my intrusion.
Narrowing my eyes at Bobby, I turn and storm toward the office double doors.
It dawns on me I’m still in my hospital scrubs, with blood still painted on my skirt and top from Clint. My hair is probably disheveled, but either way there is nothing I can do about it. I barge into the room looking like a pissed-offwarrior.
Maybe it will get me killed, but at least I’ll have stuck up for what I think is right.
A large reception desk sits adjacent from the double-doored conference room. A young blonde stands up from the desk, but I stomp past her. Bobby gives her a small nod and a wink.
“You can’t go in there; they have a meeting!” she scolds.
As I make a booming entrance into the conference room, I look around to find five men—in tweed, of course: three-piece suits of various colors. They’re around a large oval desk with numerous chairs aligned with it.
Beautiful paintings of horses and snakes adorn the room, which is full of bookshelves.
As I glare at each and every man sitting down, a pair of familiar eyes land on me.
“I tried to stop her—”
I cut off Bobby as I shout, “Who the fuck is in charge?”
The men have been rendered speechless. Some look amused. Some furrow their brows indisdain, anger or displeasure.
Then a set of familiar amber eyes gazes back at me.
He sits at the head of the table.
He places his chin within his palm. His facial features are unreadable, no emotion detected. Recognition stinging the back of my mind, trying to place him.
Finally dawns on me, the familiarity.
The white-blond hair, sides cut short, but longer slicked-back locks atop his head.
Angular face—stark, marble-white skin.
“May I help you?” His deep, icy voice racks my nerves. It’s the same guy from the pub. I would remember those hunter’s eyes anywhere. My gaze is stuck on him.
I feel off-kilter, stuck in the memory of our first encounter and wondering how I didn’t pick up on his dangerous essence the moment I barged in.
“I don’t have all day. How may I help you, Miss Brielle?” he asks again. My heart feels lodged in my throat, so I swallow hard and take a short, deep breath, getting a grasp on the courage that aided me up those stairs to this office.
“I’ve just bandaged up another boy, a boy I’ve patched up for you.Youlead them out to do your dirty work, and these boys have no idea what they are gettingthemselves into.” My breathing picks up as my heart starts to pound. I clench my fists at my side, but maintain control so this doesn’t look like an emotional outburst. “And that mark. You burn your mark into these young boys like they are cattle!? That is disgusting…degrading!” I’m almost shouting at him, the burn mark on my shoulder itching beneath my scrubs. Tugging at past traumas.
