The Hellion (Wicked Wallflowers #1)(39)

Cleopatra smiled wryly. Broderick might trust her judgment and capabilities to hold a meeting with any rival of their establishment, but he’d also not be far should she require intervention—which she rarely did.

Marching past the guards stationed around the private quarters, Cleopatra found her way deeper into the bowels of the establishment, close to the wine cellars and kitchens. One would never expect a proprietor to keep one’s quarters there. She’d heard that Black and his arrogant brothers all held offices above the rental suites, but Broderick, just like Cleopatra, knew one was best posted where one least expected to find you.

While she made the long trek to her brother’s office, she considered her impending meeting. What could Adair Thorne have to say to her? He’d been abundantly clear in their every exchange that he saw her as a vile Killoran. What would he say if he knew she was, in fact, not just another whelp taken in to Diggory’s gang? If he, Black, or any of their kin knew that, they’d have never even agreed to a peace offering in the first place.

She reached the end of the corridor leading to Broderick’s office and slowed her steps. She’d faced countless street fights with girls, lads, and fully grown men. None of those exchanges had ever kicked her heartbeat into this frantic rhythm. It’s because he’s a miserable blighter . . . an enemy of your family’s, and you despise him . . .

And yet, being in Black’s company hadn’t roused this peculiar sensation inside—a sentiment she could neither explain nor understand.

“Cleo?”

Startling, she glanced over her shoulder.

Broderick held a knife toward her.

She blinked slowly, eyeing that gleaming metal as it glinted in the dark corridors.

“Never arrive unarmed to any meeting,” he said, reminding her of another lesson she’d handed a then-naive him. Had there been more suspicion in her brother’s eyes, it would have been easier than the veiled nothingness there. For that hinted at a man who’d seen too much and knew more than she cared him to. Taking that offering in one hand, she continued her march.

Ryker Black stood outside Broderick’s office. One of their tallest, widest, strongest guards, Cullen, stood sentry beside him . . . and yet for all the world, Black may as well have owned the office.

Black briefly lingered his gaze on the blade in her hand, and she braced for his challenge. Instead, he inclined his head in a silent greeting, an apology in his eyes. With her spare hand, Cleopatra pressed the door handle and entered.

Adair stood in the center of the room, his arms folded at his chest. He stared at her through hooded dark lashes.

“A moment, Brewster,” she murmured to her brother’s second-in-command. The guard, lingering in the shadows, quit his spot and let himself out.

Alone with Adair, Cleopatra matched his pose and arched an eyebrow. Broderick’s dagger dangled awkwardly over her arm.

“I’d expect a quality guard would know better than to leave a Killoran alone with one of Black’s kin.” His was a casual observation.

She snorted. “The guards in our establishment know me and my sisters enough to know we don’t need protecting from one of yours.”

The ghost of a smile hovered on Adair’s fine-cut lips, and her stomach did a little somersault. In this, she could almost pretend they were the pair poring over his gaming hell plans. Reality intruded . . . and along with it, his cold orders and heartless suspicions about her. He believes me capable of harming a babe . . .

Cleopatra let her arms fall to her side. “Surely you’ve not come to speak about the differences between our staff and yours?” she asked, unnerved and desperate to regain her footing.

His half grin withered. He reached inside his boot, and she instantly stiffened. But he only withdrew a blade.

Her breath caught. A familiar blade.

Adair held it out.

She took an immediate, lurching step toward it, then caught herself. Even as her fingers, toes, and every muscle strained toward that one valuable possession, she restrained herself. She’d already shown too much. The keen glint in his eyes indicated as much.

“Go on,” he said gruffly.

Still, Cleopatra took slow, careful steps. Carefully training her weapon on him, she inched closer. He’d given her too many reasons to not trust him, when she’d entered the household with enough to never allow him that honor in the first place. Any of the men the Devil’s Den called patrons would have balked at having a weapon pointed at them by Cleopatra Killoran. Adair Thorne was as coolly immobile as the stone statues her brother had recently set outside the hell.

She stopped when they were a handsbreadth apart. They eyed each other a long moment, silently assessing. One arm held protectively at her chest, she opened her other palm.

Instantly, he turned it over. The heat of his callused palm burned her, dangerous in the delicious shivers he sent radiating up her arm. Cleopatra swallowed hard. What accounted for her body’s awareness of him, as a man? He was her enemy. She hated him. And yet, just then it was all jumbled. She quickly folded her fingers around the jewel-encrusted dagger and backed away.

“You think I’d kill you here in your brother’s office, Cleopatra Killoran?” he asked drolly, and yet there was also a tautness to his tone. She’d offended him, and selfishly she gave thanks that he’d misinterpreted the reason for her actions.

“Not his office. Mayhap his hallways.” Her attempt at humor was met with another frown. Cleopatra fought back a sigh. They two were destined to butt heads like angry dogs in the street. Their birthrights and rivalries demanded as much. Knowing that as she did still didn’t erase the peculiar regret that thought stirred. The first to look away, Cleopatra tugged her skirts up and deposited Broderick’s weapon inside her other boot.