Celt. (Den of Mercenaries #2)(80)

Uilleam had already warned her once, the consequences of making a move against him. And that was all anyone ever got, that one warning.

Like he said, everyone knew what it meant once they were no longer useful to him.

“Let’s say I do have the files,” she said after clearing her throat with a delicate cough. “What do you expect to find in them? I highly doubt it will still prove useful after this long.”

“My reasons are my own. As far as what I want, I want every single piece of information, both printed and digital, you have pertaining to the late Mr. Turner.”

It was clear she wanted to deny his request, but with another look around the room at the destruction he had caused, she rethought her silent denial.

“I’ll have them sent to you. My help is a bit …” She toed the leg of one of the burly men dead at her feet … “indisposed at the moment.”

Ah, just so. “You have seven hours, Elora. Seven. Should you not deliver in a timely fashion, I will rip away everything you hold dear, and even what you don’t.”

He would destroy her life.

And that was one of his better traits.

His message given, Uilleam turned to leave.

But Elora, more than a little flustered and embarrassed to having been outsmarted by him, didn’t take too kindly to that. “Is it true what they’re saying about you?” she called after him.

“I choose not to indulge in idle gossip, Elora. I suggest you do the same,” he said, even though he knew it would fall on deaf ears.

She thrived on rumors.

“He talked, you know,” Elora went on, oblivious to his growing agitation. “Before you learned he betrayed you. He told others how she ran from you. And why.”

She crossed the floor to him, slipping into her temptress role that usually garnered things in her favor. “Not everyone likes learning they’re sleeping with the devil.”

A soft laugh fell from her lips when she realized she was getting to him, but the sound cut off sharply as he grabbed her by the neck and dragged her closer, not moved by the way her nails dug into his skin.

Squeezing tighter, he said, “I once knew a man that mistook a king for a pawn, Elora. Don’t make the same mistake. Do what I’ve asked, then run far, far away, because the next time I see you, I won’t be nearly as pleasant.”

Releasing her, he ignored the tears in her eyes as she crumpled to the floor, a hand to her throat as she sucked in gulps of air. Leaving her, he strolled back out of the building without a backward glance.

Then came up short at the Aston Martin Vulcan idling at the curb.

He knew this car just as well as he knew the man behind the wheel, and even before the door was opened, Uilleam smiled.

“Hello, brother.”