Wildfire (Hidden Legacy #3)(41)

“You said yes to Shaffer?”

“Yes.”

He lapsed into silence. His face arranged itself into a cold mask. “You’re right. You are becoming the Head of your House. Might as well start planning now.”

Oh, for the love of . . . “They asked for my basic profile to eliminate the possibility of familial relations, because they’re worried I might be a Shaffer love child.”

“They asked for it to ensure that there are no complications preventing a match,” he ground out. “That’s the first step.”

I leaned through the window and savored the words. “You’re overreacting.”

A door swung open somewhere and Catalina called out, “Mom says that you should either have sex or stop arguing, because it’s past midnight and all of us are trying to sleep. Figure yourselves out!”

The door slammed shut.

“That’s okay,” I hissed. “We’re finished talking. Just one question before I go: in your expert opinion as the Head of a House, when Rynda called you, was it a true emergency? Was it something that absolutely couldn’t be resolved without your presence, or was it another opportunity for her to make sure that you’re emotionally engaged to take care of her and her children if Brian doesn’t make it? And if it was a true emergency, why didn’t you ask me to come with you?”

I slammed the window shut. There. I got it out.

He stared at me through the window, turned, and strode across the street.

That’s right. Just walk away.

I threw myself on the bed. Well, that went well.

Something thudded outside.

Now what?

I got up and went to the window. He stood in the middle of the street. A stream of pallets and huge tires flew past him, stacking themselves on the ground under my window.

I just stared, mute.

The stack grew with ridiculous speed. He was building a ramp to my window.

I pulled the window open again. “Are you out of your mind?”

His face was grim. “No.”

“You’re expending a huge amount of magic doing this.”

His expression told me he didn’t care.

The flood of tires ended midway up; the pallets stopped too. He’d run out of building materials.

The door opened again. “Mom says—” my sister started.

A fire escape ladder tore itself off the building across the street on my left and wedged itself in the stack. Several cement bags landed on its base, anchoring it.

Catalina shut the door without another word.

He walked up the ramp, climbed the ladder to my window, and held his hand out to me.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m kidnapping you back to my lair. You’re sleeping in my bed tonight and all other nights.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“And do I have any say in this?”

“You always have a say. If you say no, I’ll leave.”

He wore his Prime face, inscrutable and detached. But his eyes gave him away. He was barely in control and hanging on by the tips of his fingers.

We could either work through this mess or I could sit in my room and steam in my own hurt feelings. I grabbed his pair of sweatpants, pulled them on, stuck my feet into my slippers, and put my hand in his.

My cell phone rang.



Who the hell would be calling me at midnight?

I raised my finger. “One second.”

The phone streaked across the room and held still in front of me.

I took it and answered.

“Nevada Baylor.”

“There you are,” Vincent Harcourt said.

“Hello, Vincent.” My voice was so sweet, you could drip it on pancakes. I put him on speaker. “So nice of you to take time away from terrorizing children to call me.”

“I had a spare moment.”

His voice set my teeth on edge. So smug.

Rogan took my hand. Together we walked down the ladder, then the ramp toward his HQ.

“I see you filed for trials.”

It wasn’t enough he had almost killed Rynda’s children, Edward, and a houseful of people. No, he decided to call me in the middle of the night to rattle me.

“Do you think you can be a Prime?”

“You tell me. How did it feel when you couldn’t move and stood there shaking, trying with all your will to keep me out of your mind? Did it feel like I’m a Prime?”

Heat flared in Rogan’s eyes. He smiled, low and lazy, looking at me as if we were in the middle of a ballroom and I wore a ten-thousand-dollar gown instead of his T-shirt.

“Touché,” Vincent said. “Too bad you won’t make it to trials. You might have been interesting.”

“Is this the part where you threaten me?”

“No, this is the part where I educate. You don’t know how the game is played, so I’ll explain it to you. You’re dead. Your mother is dead.”

In my head I saw my mother lying in place of Edward Sherwood, a bat-ape creature digging in her stomach. You bastard.

“Your cute sister is dead.”

He would pay for this.

“Your other sister is dead.”

Other? He took the time to opine on the cuteness of my sisters while threatening to kill them. Oh, I wish he was within bullet range. I wish.