Page 57 of Corrupted Queen

I won’t lie—a shiver goes down my spine watching Alexis lay heat and intimidation on this woman. Her lips are pursed, eyes glowing, and she looks downright murderous. The only hitch is, I worry what she will do if the woman does not listen. I may find this side of her sexy, but I am sure the cameras and tabloids will have other words for it.

“What are you going to do about it?” the woman goads.

“Alexis, let’s just go,” I say, cupping her elbow.

“Not until I deal with her,” she snarls.

My perfect warrior queen. I am tempted to leave her to it just so I can watch as the claws come out and the woman regrets her poisonous lies. But something about the sudden confrontation doesn’t seem right, and there are too many witnesses around to let Alexis shatter the image we have been carefully constructing all night.

“Alexis.” My voice is low, firm.

Alexis blinks, recognizing the tone for what it is—a warning. She looks up at me, then looks back at the woman and sighs.

“You’re lucky,” she mutters. “Go drink some water. And chew some gum, too. Your breath stinks.”

The woman lets out an outraged shriek, but I am already guiding Alexis through the crowd, toward the exit. No doubt the gossip columns will speculate on our sudden exit, but Carmen will make sure that none of the whisperings add up to anything substantive.

“We don’t have to leave,” Alexis complains, lips tugged down at the corners.

I chuckle. “What? Are you saying you’re having such a good time that you want to stay?”

“Well, no,” she replies. “But I don’t want us to be seen as backing down, either.”

“We’re not backing down, we’re making a graceful retreat.”

I glance over my shoulder and stop dead. The woman is still there, standing straighter now than she did while making a scene. She is talking and laughing with a man whose gaze stabs into me like an arrow from across the room.

Patrick Walsh is the spitting image of his father, only where his father was fully gray, Patrick’s hair is a deep chestnut brown. He wears it in the same style—short at the sides, long and combed back on top. His eyes are beady chunks of emerald, lips eternally curved as though suppressing a secret. He’s a few inches shorter than me, but still tall by most standards, with a slender frame suited more to a cat burglar than a Mafia don.

My jaw clenches and Alexis tracks my line of sight.

“Is that …” she trails off.

“Stay here,” I say, turning around and heading in Patrick’s direction.

I have no idea what I’m going to say to Patrick, but I can’t leave this slight unacknowledged. I don’t know why he had this woman try to embarrass me in front of Alexis and the public, but he clearly needs reminding who is in charge.

“Gabriel,” Patrick greets jovially as I arrive in front of him. “What a coincidence, we were just talking about you.”

The woman tips her head back and laughs. It’s an ugly sound, and I can see from the disgust on his face that Patrick thinks so too. He wrinkles his nose and tells the woman to leave. She does, looking furious.

“That was a poor show, Patrick,” I say in a low voice. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

“Twas nothing but a little practical joke.” Patrick’s eyes glow with mirth. “That’s what friends do, isn’t it?”

“We are not friends.”

Patrick’s thick brows converge above his nose, lips puckering, as though genuinely upset. “How could you say that? I made you all those friendship bracelets. We played hopscotch together.”

Not for the first time, I wish my father hadn’t killed Damien Walsh. Though young, he understood respect in a way his father and brother never have.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, but it ends here,” I warn him.

His eyes shine with something I can only describe as madness. “I don’t think it does end here. I think it’s only just beginning.”

I do not like the sound of this. Is he implying that he is on the cusp of betraying me? Perhaps he already has.

I glance around, checking that nobody is close enough to hear us. All the people around seem disinterested in the exchange, as the event has now reached a level of drunken frivolity where guests tend to steer clear of the more serious-looking conversations.

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