Page 113 of Stolen Rival
The bartender arches a brow. “Would that be a Scottish whisky?” His lips quirk up but fall pretty quickly when I glare at him.
“Sure, if you want to have the fat end of the bottle rammed up your fat arse.”
Kai snickers. The bartender ducks his head, avoiding my gaze, and pours me three fingers from a bottle of Irish single malt. I toss a twenty on the bar, pick up my glass, and head for a table away from the door. After wiping crisp crumbs onto the threadbare carpet, I sit.
“You enjoy that, don’t you?”
I sip my drink, appreciating the warmth from the liquid that slides down my throat. “You know how to pick ’em.”
He chuckles. “Better a traditional pub than one of those shite modern venues that are taking over London faster than a plague of locusts hoovers up a field of wheat.”
I grunt my agreement. London isn’t what it once was. Some call it progress. I call it a damn fucking shame. For me, it’s lost its heart, sold its soul to big business and glossy skyscrapers.
“Today went well.”
“Well enough. Don’t think we’ll have anymore trouble from our little friend.”
My brother, Patrick, had sent me over to England to redraw a line in the sand that shouldn’t have needed drawing in the first place. Part of the problem of expanding our territory is the growth of idiots who think we’re spread too thin. Chancerswho figure we’ll have taken our eye off the ball and decide to shave off a slice of the pie for themselves.
The prick from the meeting I just left will have trouble shaving his fucking face with a few missing fingers.
“Nothing like sending a message.”
“Yep.” I knock back the rest of my drink.
“Another?”
“Why not.”
Kai returns with another round, then disappears to the bathroom. I slide my phone from my pocket and send Patrick an encrypted text. He doesn’t answer, and I didn’t expect him to, but a check-in is a normal part of our procedures.
A feeling of being watched has me raising my head. The guy I barged earlier is staring, but as soon as our eyes meet, he looks away. Smirking, I shift my attention to the bar. The bartender who served us is talking to a woman with her back to me.
I run my gaze over her. She’s tall, narrow waisted, and long limbed. Dark wavy hair snakes down her back, and the way she’s got her hands planted on her hips tells me she’s either irritated or frustrated with whatever he’s saying to her.
She nods, then pivots and snatches up a cloth. As she raises her head, shock rolls through me.
Rowan “Rebel” Byrne. What the fuck?
Blinding hot rage careens through my veins, and my hand tightens around the half-drunk glass of whiskey. Eight years. Eight fucking years since I last saw this woman’s traitorous face, and she’s just going about her business without a fucking care in the world.
Almost instinctively, I touch the gnarly scar running down the length of my face, and the back injury I suffered after being beaten almost to deathflares up.
For years I searched for her, the need for vengeance eating me up until there was nothing left other than a husk of a man who fell in love when he was too young and stupid to realize he was being played for a fucking mug.
I down the last of my drink and get to my feet. As I approach the bar, she gives me a cursory glance, then turns away, reaching above her head for a pint glass. Her purple T-shirt rises up, giving me a glimpse of tanned skin and toned abs. My stupid, brainless dick twitches. If Rowan’s betrayal taught me anything, it’s that I should never listen to my cock.
Moving to the far end, she holds the glass at an angle and pulls on one of the pumps. Dark ale spurts into the glass. My eyes burn holes in the side of her face, but if she realizes I’m sending a hate-filled gaze her way, she doesn’t react.
She sets the pint of beer on the bar and holds out her hand for payment. The guy passes a note across the bar. Ringing up the sale, she counts out his change and drops the coins into his waiting palm.
There’s no one else waiting other than me. She travels the length of the bar, a fake smile fixed in place as she approaches.
“Hi there. What can I get you?”
A flawless face. A whole heart. The young guy who believed in fucking fairytales and happy ever afters.
“You’ve got some fucking nerve.”
