Page 64 of Vow To The Devil

"Oof." I wince. "That's a long time without earning a cent in profit. We have money. Can't we grease some palms and get things moving faster than that?"

"I already included that in my time estimates." Larsen shakes his head. "That's the best I can possibly promise."

"Shit." I shove my hand through my wind-tousled hair. "The guy you replaced was family. Now I'm wondering what exactly the last guy had planned. How was he going to pull this off?"

"In my opinion, there was no way. He would have run into roadblocks immediately. I'm sorry to say this, but I think you were sold a bill of goods."

Larsen looks apologetic, which only makes me angrier.

"Well, where do we go from here?" I ask.

He shrugs. "First, we have to pull everything together. We need to go through all the paperwork and see exactly what we have. I suggest you talk to your family and see if they know anything more than what I've discovered so far."

I give a low laugh. "I don't think he'll be very helpful. We parted on bad terms. Even if I offered him money, I don't trust that what he'd tell me was legit."

He nods. "Okay. Then I want the latitude to hire some good people to work on this project. The faster we can get it up and running, the sooner we can get things back on track."

"Whatever you need. My assistant Rob will handle any purchase orders or bank drafts you might need."

Adam Larsen sticks his hand out. I shake his hand and he looks me in the eye.

"This project is my baby. Take good care of it."

He gives me a nod. "Will do."

When he lets my hand go, he hands me a slip of paper. "There's your deed to the area."

"Thanks," I say, my eyes riveted on the paper. I have waited months for this.

The thick parchment crinkles under my grip, sea-salt and pine wafting from the page. My heart thumps as I scan the deed, a surge of triumph and longing warring in my chest.

The Maine coastline. Jagged shore and misty mornings, my childhood sanctuary. How many summers did I race Burn across the rocky beach, sand and surf stinging my feet? Remy would bark orders from the wraparound porch of our weathered beach house, whiskey in hand though the sun had barely risen.

Now it's mine. Mine to shape and wield as I see fit.

Images flash through my mind, unbidden—the craggy cove transformed into a private port, sleek yachts docked where once Burn and I built sandcastles. An airstrip cut into the dense forest, my jet waiting on the tarmac to whisk me off at a moment's notice.

But most of all, an oil rig, way out in the ocean. Pumping that precious black gold out of the earth.

My knuckles pale around the deed as purpose surges within me. Let Felix cling to his lies and manipulations. The past is dead, and I'll stop at nothing to forge a future of my own design.

Maine will be my first conquest.

I start to fold the deed with care and tuck it into my jacket, a savage smile twisting my lips. The game is afoot.

My triumph evaporates at the last second as something on the paper catches my eye. I unfold the paper and my gaze lands on the looping scrawl at the bottom of the page.

It's not my signature.

Not Remy's, as it would be if the land were a Morgan Drilling asset.

No, there on the bottom of the page is scrawled Felix Morgan.

Thatmotherfucker.

My vision blurs. I can't even believe what I am looking at. It seems Felix couldn't resist one final jab at me. Or maybe he was planning this the whole time.

The paper slips through my fingers, drifting to the ground.Felix. Bile rises in my throat at the sight of that hated name.

---