Brutal Vows (Queens & Monsters #4)(72)

“I’ll try his cell. I can’t believe he left you there alone. How did you get back from the reception?”

“Your cousin Carmine.”

“Oh God. Does he still have a driver’s license? He’s about a hundred years old!”

“You’re thinking of your granduncle Carmine. Speaking of which, he was molto borracho at the reception. Got cozy with a bunch of young Irish bucks and went shot for shot with them. Then they all started to sing. It was hilarious.”

I’m glad I missed it.

When Quinn walks into the bedroom, I say, “I have to go. I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Certo. And Reyna?”

“Yes?”

Her voice softens. “Give this one a chance. I have a good feeling about him.”

“You had a good feeling about Lili going to college, too.”

“Maybe she’ll go to college in Mexico.”

“And maybe I’ll become an astronaut and fly to the moon. Talk to you later.”

I hang up and distract myself from Quinn standing in the doorway glowering at me by examining my manicure.

I always keep my nails short and painted black. It confuses people. They’re not sure if I’m chic and trendy or a dominatrix.

He says, “That was your mother?”

I say archly, “It speaks! I was beginning to think I’d have to take sign language classes.”

A grumble indicates my new husband isn’t pleased by my sass. He stands in the doorway wearing only a white towel wrapped around his hips. His hair is mussed, his eyes are burning, and he’s so damn handsome, it pisses me off.

“I’ve got clothes coming for you.”

He says it like a threat. That pisses me off even more.

“How thrilling. Would you like to tell me what your problem is now, or are we just going to start throwing things?”

We glare at each other across the room until a sharp knock on the door interrupts us.

His jaw clenched, he says, “That’ll be Kieran.”

I rise from the bed and brush past him on my way to the bathroom. “Good. I hope he brought one of your better personalities with him.”

Fuming, I slam the door behind me.





29





Spider





Kieran takes one look at my face when I open the door and bursts into laughter.

I growl, “Shut it. I’m in no mood.”

“As if I couldn’t tell by that mug yer wearin’.” He peers around my shoulder. “Where’s the missus?”

“Heating her cauldron. Is that everything?”

“Aye. Just the few bags. She’s a light packer.”

I mutter, “Must’ve left all the spell books and potions at home.”

When Kieran makes a face at me, I sigh. “Never mind. We’ll meet you downstairs in twenty minutes.”

“Don’t ye want to know how yer party went?”

“Declan already told me.”

He purses his lips in dissatisfaction. “Did he tell ye I spent half the night flirtin’ with a Mafia lass and the other half dancin’ with her?”

“Do yourself a favor, lad. Stay away from the Italians. They’re murder on the nerves.”

Kieran and I bring Reyna’s bags in, along with a fresh suit for me that he picked up. Then he leaves to wait for us in the car. A few minutes later, a hotel employee arrives with the dresses I ordered up from the boutique. I tip her, wondering why her face is red, then realize I’ve still got nothing on but the towel.

When she’s gone and I’ve dressed, I knock on the bathroom door.

“Your clothes are here.”

When Reyna doesn’t answer when I knock again, a twinge of panic twists my stomach. I try the handle, but the door is locked.

“Woman, open this door.”

Nothing.

I rattle the handle. “You’ve got five seconds!”

Still nothing.

My brain presents me with a series of awful images, starting with a weeping Reyna sitting on the toilet with her head in her hands and accelerating directly to her lying naked in a pool of blood, her wrists slit, her skin blue, and her eyes wide open as they stare sightlessly at the ceiling.

My heart pounding and my breath coming fast, I rear back and give the door a hard kick.

It flies open and slams against the wall with a crash.

Wrapped in a towel, Reyna leans against the bathroom sink, filing her nails and smiling at me.

“I wondered how long that would take you. The silent treatment can be so annoying, can’t it?”

Relieved, frustrated, and angry, I snap, “Don’t do that again.”

She looks me up and down with an expression like I just staggered in off the street, covered in my own vomit.

I turn and grab her suitcases. I toss those into the bathroom, then go back for the wrapped packages from the boutique. I drop them onto the floor just inside the door.

“Get dressed. You have ten minutes.”

“Where are we going?”

“Out!”

Half an hour later, she sashays out of the bathroom with her nose in the air like she’s a socialite attending a fundraiser for her least favorite charity.

I’d say something about that bitchy look on her face and how late she is, but I can’t speak.