Page 5 of Forbidden Protector

I make a conscious effort not to groan. Amateurs.

“Anyone caught neglecting their paperwork can report straight to Connor,” I say evenly. “Anyone caught stealing can report to me.”

“Yessir,” Jon says with a wobbly half grin. By the look on Toby’s face, I can tell they know exactly who’s been acting up.

Good, better that these two feel like they have the power to deal with it. Threatening some greenie is no skin off my nose, but the hassle of tracking the fucker down myself is exhausting.

There’s a reason I’ve opted not to take up residence in the warehouse.

My own estate might be cold, empty, and a constant reminder of the disgraced name of the Novas.

But I’m aKnight; thriving in solitude is what I do best.

That doesn’t keep me from double-checking weapon status, turning an assessing eye on a few of the greenies to gauge their readiness, or getting a quick update from the guy in charge of our vehicles. Connor might be the public face of this organization, but it’s my money behind it and I intend to see it put to good use.

With one thing and another, it’s a good two hours before I’m done wading through the hustle of activity that seems to take place here day and night.

Six months ago, this place was nothing more than a dusty old fishing industry relic with a shipping container inside so that Connor could sleep off his hangover (read: pneumonia after stubbornly staying in that god-awful mansion for so long).

Now, the lingering stench of fish has been replaced with the metallic tang of machinery and the constant hum of the distillery.

I never really liked vodka, but it’s a far more convenient way to launder money than my uncle’s method of extorting anyone who questioned him. Besides, the Irish inhale the stuff quicker than my Lamborghini burns through gas, making it one of our most profitable exploits.

Not that it particularly matters to me; my inheritance makes its own money. But it’s nice to see a little return on my investment.

“Arnie!” a woman’s voice chirps from behind me, and I turn to see Diane waving at me from her workstation.

The pretty, dark-skinned girl was recruited after being kicked out of university for stealing ethanol from the science lab. She’s related to someone, I think, or else Connor must have gotten word about her from one of his contacts—but either way, it didn’t take her long to find herself here.

It’s hard not to like Diane; she’s one of the only people in this place who doesn’t seem wholly intimidated by me. Even if her experiments with the flavor of our vodka are, more often than not, absolutely disgusting.

“What are you working on?” I ask conversationally as I approach.

“Nettle and pomegranate,” she replies, confidently handing me a shot glass.

I sniff it dubiously. “As in stinging nettles?”

“You said to cut down on production costs,” she points out. “And we practically have a farm of nettles out back.”

“Is that even hygienic?”

She pouts at me.

“Fine,” I say, ignoring the way her eyes light up as I take a sip.

I’m not oblivious to her flirtations, but it would be exhausting to point them out and then deal with the consequences of my rejection.

It would be almost as bad as the vodka that’s currently sliding down my throat.

“What do you think?” Diane presses eagerly.

I hand the glass back to her wordlessly.

“Come on, it’s not that bad,” she whines at me. “The pomegranate takes away some of the bitterness.”

“Why can’t you do normal flavors? Like vanilla or something?” I complain, looking around for something to wash my mouth out with.

Diane hands me a bottle of water automatically. “Because that’s not the Maguire brand. We make money off this stuff because we take risks.”

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