Page 41 of Beautiful Sinners

The tension that suddenly spikes the air around us could choke a person to death. It significantly skyrockets when I catch sight of the man notoriously known as the Grim Reaper stalking down the hall toward us.

Jaxson West’s reputation is well-established in our world. The blood, death, and body count left in his wake speak for themselves. Not to mention, the guy is certifiably crazy.

“This her?” he asks Rafe, his pale green eyes behind his wire-framed glasses completely focused on Aoife while he ignores the rest of us like we don’t exist.

He doesn’t see Con, Hen, or me as a threat. He should. Mr. West isn’t the only Grim Reaper in the room. Con’s moniker in the Society is Death for a reason.

“I’m standing right here. Ask me yourself,” Aoife sasses, and I want to pick her up and throw her back into the elevator and get the hell out of there.

Jaxson’s lips twitch. “Your rooms are ready. Down the hall. Pick whichever. The entire floor is yours. Andie fell asleep with Sarah, and I’m not going to wake her just to come down and say hi. Give me your hand.”

His long, inked fingers wiggle for her to place her hand in his, which she does. He turns her index finger over onto a tablet I didn’t see him holding.

“What are you doing?” she asks as a black line moves down the screen.

“You can now access the elevator and doors using your fingerprint. Anything above level fifty is off limits, so your biometrics won’t work for those floors.”

Con observes with interest. He loves techie shit.

“What about us?” Hendrix says when Jaxson starts to walk off.

“What about you?” Jaxson coldly replies and disappears around a corner, the sound of a door opening and clanging shut soon following.

Aoife bends forward and peeks around me. “Who was that?”

“Jax.” Rafe backs up until he’s inside the elevator. “I’ll leave you to yell at one another. Just try not to break the furniture or dent the drywall. Fridge and pantry are stocked if you’re hungry. If you need anything, just pick up any phone and hit the star, or ask one of the men. Sleep in as late as you’d like. We’ll see you whenever you’re up and about. Expect chaos.”

What the hell does that mean? And what men?

When the elevator doors close, we’re plummeted once again into uneasy silence. Dierdre fidgets in place as she looks expectantly between Aoife and me.

“Why are you still here?” Hendrix throws at Evan when he continues to loiter like an asshole.

“Fuck you, Knight.”

Evan is an interesting conundrum. By all general appearances, he looks soft. Non-threatening. His good-boy, clean-cut persona would fool anyone, but you can’t grow up the son of an Irish mafia don and not be tainted by it. I see the stain on his soul and the steel underneath his exterior. And if he thinks for one second that he’s going to weasel his way into Aoife’s life, using the pretense of being related…distantly… he’s going to learn real fucking fast that ain’t ever happening.

Dierdre shifts side to side on the balls of her feet. It’s something she used to do when agitated.

“Can we please sit down and talk?”

“No,” I automatically say at the same time Aoife yanks my hand and says, “Yes.”

For fuck’s sake. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to sit and be forced to listen to whatever false excuses my sister wants to spew to rationalize what she did.

Aoife turns to Evan, and without her having to say anything, he pivots on his heels and leaves in the direction Jax vanished. There must be exit doors that way that lead to a stairwell or something. It also irritates the crap out of me that he can come and go as he pleases. The guys and I will have to rely on Aoife to go anywhere inside Falcon Tower. We’re mice trapped in a lion’s den—albeit a very nice lion’s den.

In the span of a few seconds, I soak in my surroundings. The floor space is open-concept with modern decor in muted colors of gray and slate blue. Floor-to-ceiling windows that stretch along the entirety of one wall offer an incredible view of the city’s breathtaking nighttime skyline, and the back wall adjacent to the hallway has a dark wood bookcase—tall enough to require a rolling ladder—running along it from end-to-end.

“Can we talkprivately?” Dierdre presses, but she directs it to Aoife, not to me.

In response, Con ambles into the living area and drops down onto a U-shaped leather sectional.

“This is as private as you’re going to get,” I tell her.

Hendrix keeps side-eyeing the modern chef’s kitchen to our left. Not able to stop himself, he saunters over and rifles through the contents of the refrigerator. Taking out a carton of eggs and a block of cheese, he sets them down on the expansive granite counter island.

“Omelets,” is all he says as he bangs the lower cabinet doors open and closed looking for a frying pan.

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