Page 6 of His Perfect Little Heirs

“Take this roundabout and head back towards the car, sweet girl,” Clay says, his voice taking on the chilling tone of apathy that I have come to know as a dangerous sound.

I do as he instructs, and then pull over just ahead of the convoy of cars.

Once the BMW is in park, I stare ahead, nerves still rattling through me, adrenaline a little potent in my veins.

Clay places his finger under my chin and directs me to him, asking, “Did that scare you?”

I blink at the most powerful man in the city…Hell,maybe the world. “It was my fault, Sir. I went too wide. I fucked up, and Idisappointedyou.”

“No, you did not disappoint me. But you did miscalculate the turn.” He nods, his clear blue gaze melting into me. “You were too pleased with yourself for winning our conversation. You need more practise, little deer. You can learn to drive, but there is no need for it. You will not be driving yourself around.”

“I know that.”

“Good.” He leans in and kisses me, dissolving my nerves for a moment under his sweet attention.

Too soon, his lips leave mine and he steps from the vehicle. Smoothing his dark tie down his black shirt, he turns and walks to the grey vehicle that idles quietly.

With wide eyes, I twist to watch my fiancé approach the car that honked at me, and the man being dragged from it by my first guard, Bolton. Or, as I affectionately call him: Henchman Jeeves.

The man who barked at me looks to be in his late twenties, with blond hair and of average build, wearing jeans and a blue shirt with a wave print on it. Contradictory to his casual attire, the lush fabric of Clay’s black suit moves with each long, meaningful stride as he stalks towards him.

Stopping in front of the vehicle, Clay clasps his hands and waits as Henchman Jeeves presents the man like a gift or offering for him.

Unsettled, I twist the ends of my hair around my finger, but the houses lining the street remind me that nothing too dire can happen. Not here. In this quiet neighbourhood.

But…It was my fault.

The man is still. I can only see the back of Sir’s head now, but the man is nodding nervously. He wipes at his forehead, even though the cool breeze holds the climate at the perfect temperature.

Suddenly, the man looks at me.

Clay clicks to draw his attention.

The man with the blue shirt snaps his eyes back in place and continues to shrink a few feet through the intense conversation. He was already pocket-sized compared to Clay Butcher, but most people are.

Several moments pass, and it’s near silent on this street. Not a single car. It is as though Clay blocks part of the city whenever I have a lesson.

Oh. My. God.

He blocks the streets.

When Clay and the man wander toward my car, I exhale fast. Quickly, I slouch back in the seat as though I wasn’t watching the exchange.

Chill, Fawn.

The man knocks on the driver’s side windscreen with Clay standing just behind him, an ominous presence at his spine.

I lower the window, and Clay kicks the man’s shoe to encourage him to step backwards, to add space.

“Miss, I am so sorry for yelling at you.” The man stammers. “I- I—"

I interrupt, “I went—”

“No. You have a—"

“Donot”—Clay’s voice booms—"interrupt her.”

The man swallows. “My apologies.”

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