Brutal Vows (Queens & Monsters #4)(39)

And why, oh fucking why, can’t I stop thinking about her?

We don’t even like each other, for fuck’s sake!

No. That’s not true. I do actually like her. Despite her sharp edges that could cleanly shear off a limb, I like how smart she is. How quick-witted. How funny, though I’m usually the punchline of the joke. I like the way she lobs an insult like a tennis drive, then hits me again when I lob one back.

I like how protective she is of Lili. How tender she is with her. Like a mama bear with her cub.

It means she’s not all razor blades and barbed wire. Somewhere underneath all that armor she wears beats a soft heart.

A soft heart that learned how to hide from a cruel hand.

I meant what I said when I told her I’d like to kill her dead husband. I’d even be happy to exhume his rotten corpse and have a go at that.

I also meant what I said when I told her I never wanted to see her after the wedding. That was the God’s honest truth.

Because every second I spend in that woman’s company is a reminder of all the reasons I agreed to an arranged marriage in the first place.

Christ. I wish a few dozen more of those intruders would show up.

I’m going to need to shoot a lot more people before all this is over.





15





Rey





When I rise early in the morning and head to the kitchen to make breakfast for the men, I find Quinn already there, standing in the middle of the room like he’s been waiting in that spot for centuries.

Surprised, I stop short in the doorway and look at him.

His eyes are bloodshot. His hair’s a mess. He’s wearing the same shirt he had on yesterday, the one with the rip through the shoulder and bloodstains down the sleeve.

He looks strung out. Dangerously wired. As if he was up all night mainlining cocaine.

“Good morning,” I say cautiously.

His gaze drags over me like a rake over hot coals. His voice comes out rough. “You all right?”

“Yes. Why, did something happen while I was asleep?”

He shakes his head, then shoves a hand through his hair. He stares at me for a moment, then turns away abruptly and starts to pace back and forth in front of the island with his hands propped on his hips and his brows drawn down.

This is normally where I’d make a smart remark about his calm and cheery personality, but there’s something different about him today. His thunderclouds have a heavier aspect. He’s all charged nerves and crackling tension, and it makes me worried.

I take a few hesitant steps into the kitchen. “Quinn?”

He makes a sharp cutting motion with his hand and growls.

I put my hands up. “Okay.”

Ignoring him, I set the oven to preheat. Then I head to the fridge and start pulling things out. Next, I hit the pantry. I put everything on the counter by the stove, start a pot of coffee, and begin to chop veggies and prep for the meal.

Behind me, Quinn paces back and forth. Every so often, he huffs, sounding like a bull pawing the ground before it charges.

I fight the almost overpowering urge to turn around and give him a hug.

He drops heavily into a chair, exhales in a gust, then groans. The sound is low and full of misery.

When I turn to look at him, he’s got his elbows propped on the kitchen table. His eyes are closed and his head is gripped in his hands, his hair sticking through his fingers.

Without saying a word, I pour coffee into a big mug, add a teaspoon of sugar, and set the mug in front of him. Then I go back to cooking and ignore him again.

After a while, he says in a low voice, “How did you know I take my coffee black with sugar?”

Beating eggs in a mixing bowl, I smile to myself. “You seem like a man who likes a little sweetness, but doesn’t want anyone to know it.”

Grouchy as hell, he snaps, “Aye? Any other witty observations you’d like to share?”

“Drink your coffee. It’s too early to argue.”

For the next ten minutes, we don’t speak. With words, anyway. He sits and throws lightning bolts at my back, which I deflect with a calm that only seems to incense him more.

I can tell he’s spoiling for a fight, but I won’t give it to him.

Twice, he jolts up from the table and refills his mug from the coffeepot, only to return to the table, fling himself into a chair again, and recommence brooding.

After he lets out his third loud grumble in as many minutes, I’ve had enough.

I stop what I’m doing, cross to the table, pull up a chair beside him, and say quietly, “What is it? I’m worried about you.”

Stunned, he blinks at me.

“I’m serious, Quinn. I want to know what’s wrong. Please tell me.”

He blinks again. “Did…did you just say please?”

“Cut the bullshit. What’s happened?”

When he only sits there staring at me like I just landed from outer space, I prompt, “Did you argue with Gianni? Did you find out something about those men? Has there been a change of plans?”

“The wedding’s still on, if that’s what you mean,” he says crossly.

I gaze at him for a moment, then sigh. “I’m sorry I’ve been so negative about that. I’m sure you can understand why, but…well, I was thinking that I’ve been really hard on you. Unfairly hard. After what you did yesterday…”