Brazen and the Beast (The Bareknuckle Bastards #2)(35)

A dark brow rose. “Thirty percent.”

It was an enormous amount, but Hattie refused to show it. “Fifteen.”

“Thirty.”

She pressed her lips into a thin, disapproving line. “Seventeen.”

“Thirty.”

Exasperation flared. “You’re supposed to be negotiating.”

“Am I?”

“Do you not run a business?”

“Of a sort,” he said.

Obstinate man. “And as part of that business, do you not negotiate?”

He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Not often.”

“I suppose you just take what you like.”

A black brow rose in reply. “I might remind you that it is your penchant for taking what you like that has landed us here, Lady Henrietta.”

“I told you, I had nothing to do with it. I am only here to repair the damage.”

“Why?”

Because that business is the only thing I’ve ever wanted in my life.

“Because I don’t like thievery.” He watched her for a long moment—long enough for her to become uncomfortable. She shifted on her feet and said, “And so . . . twenty percent.”

He did not move. “So far, you’ve offered me nothing I would not have taken without your offering it. Indeed, you’ve offered less than I intend to take.”

She blinked. “More than twenty percent interest?”

He was enormous in the quiet space. “More than money, Hattie.”

She cleared her throat. “The deal is for money. Money and your knives.”

She regretted the words as soon as they were out, his amber gaze on the leather braces crisscrossing her chest making her wish she hadn’t removed her shawl.

“Then it isn’t a deal,” he said. “A deal implies that I get something in return. So, I ask again. What do I get from this deal that is so far simply a repayment of funds and a return of goods thieved, with no assurance that your company will avoid interaction with my businesses in the future?”

Your company. She didn’t miss the words, smooth and certain on his tongue. Didn’t miss the pleasure of them rioting through her—hers. She was so close to it all. The future she’d always wanted. She wouldn’t let him take it from her. “You have my assurance.”

“And I am to believe your father wouldn’t repeat himself when he decides he needs money again?”

Defensiveness flared. “It wasn’t my father.” He did not react to the words. She narrowed her gaze on him. “But you know that.”

“Tell me why you protect the truth.”

Because he’s my only chance at the business. That had been the deal with Augie. She made this disappear, she kept him safe, and he would tell Father to give her the business.

Everything was on the line. And this man—his acceptance of her offered arrangement—was all that stood between her and her future. But if she told him that, he would hold all the power. And she couldn’t allow that.

So, she stayed silent.

He closed the distance between them with predatory grace that would have set any number of men on edge. And it did set her on edge as he lifted a hand, reaching for her. Her breath caught in her throat. What would he do? Would he touch her?

He didn’t touch her. Instead, he set a single finger to the thick leather strap at her shoulder, the one leading down to his knives, tracing it with barely-there pressure. “Tell me why he gave you my knives and sent you into my world.”

The touch traveled lower and lower, over the ribs of the blades seated deep in their leather scabbards. Her breath came harsh as he followed the second strap, the one that crossed beneath her breasts, over the buckle connecting one half of the holster to the other.

“Tell me why he sent you to me, like a sacrifice.” His touch lingered on the brass, his thumb coming to stroke over it once, twice. On the third pass, his fingers splayed over her torso, and she simultaneously craved and feared the caress—at once hinting at immense pleasure and hot embarrassment. After all, Hattie was not exactly lean, and there, where leather crossed her body, there was a swell of flesh that she would prefer he not notice.

She took a step back, hating the loss of his touch even as she found the breath that had been impossible for her to catch. She lifted her chin, drawing strength from the cool oak door behind her. She willed her voice firm. “He didn’t send me anywhere. I am the heroine of my own play, sir.”

“Mmm. A warrior in your own right.” He advanced, his nearness pressing her more firmly into the door. “So it is you who offers me these poor terms. Money that was mine to begin with and none of the retribution I intended to exact.”

“Retribution is a silly goal,” she said. “It’s intangible. It’s air.”

“Mmm.” The low rumble of assent was at her ear, so close she imagined she could feel the breath of it on her skin. “Just like air. Essential. Vital. Life-giving.”

She leaned away at that, twisting to see his eyes, cursing the darkness in the dimly lit room. “Do you believe that?”

He was silent long enough for her to believe he might not reply. And then he replied, soft and dark, “I believe that we spend all our lives fighting for our due. Air or otherwise.”

The words struck true. Lord knew Hattie had spent her fair time doing just that. Fighting for autonomy, for future, for her father’s approval and her family’s business. She’d been born a woman in a man’s world, and spent her entire life battling for a place in it. Desperate to prove herself worthy of it.