Oaths and Omissions (Monsters & Muses #3)(47)

Liquid heat flares in his irises, and he looks down at my mouth. Pushes more of his thumb inside, pressing the flat of it against my tongue.

“I’m very different without an audience,” he says. “You’d take a lot more than just a couple of my fingers, love.”

Reflexively, my thighs clench together.

One side of his mouth lifts. “You like the sound of that?”

I nod.

Just once. Just barely.

But it shifts something between us. Knocks a tectonic plate out of place, sending hot arousal rippling through the air.

“Tell me something, first.”

Pulling back, I let him remove himself from my mouth. “Okay.”

“What’s the deal with you and Preston Covington?”

The blood in my veins turns to poison, and I seize up at the question, sitting back in my seat. “What do you mean? He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

Jonas drops his hand. “Right. And yet the animosity he demonstrated today indicates there’s something you’re not telling me.”

I stare out the windshield of the Range Rover, my eyes fixed on the beach behind the house but unfocused. Blue and white swim in my vision, trying to blot out my thoughts.

Hooking my pinkie in the hem of my dress, I shrug. “I don’t know what to tell you. That’s just how he is. Borderline psychotic and spoiled.”

“What in the world possessed you to date him, then?”

Turning my head, I look at Jonas. “The same thing that told me to proposition you.”

His face tenses, an unreadable expression passing over his face that has my stomach dropping to my ass, though I can’t quite pinpoint why.

“And what was that?”

I consider lying again and giving the spiel about Daddy making me date someone. About being my own person and wanting to make decisions for myself that have nothing to do with Primrose Realty or publicity.

But the truth is that my decision to enter a fake relationship with him wasn’t a choice at all.

It was an impulse. A split-second action driven entirely by the part of my brain that refuses to let me do what I want in the first place.

So, instead, I give him this.

Because I want more from him.

“A whim. I didn’t think about it, I just… did it because something in my gut told me to.”





22





My brother rubs his temple with a knuckle, watching as I kneel in front of Carl Campbell, the acquisitions manager at Primrose Realty.

Once a CPA in his hometown of Pittsburgh, Carl’s background in finance and experience with embezzlement made him the perfect candidate for Tom’s shady corporation.

On the surface, Primrose Realty was merely a company interested in building its portfolio by obtaining large commercial properties and selling them for profit. The reality, however, was a far more common practice for many businesses; the purchasing of real estate acted as a veil, keeping the facade of legitimacy up while they were busy extorting and laundering, and sometimes, trafficking.

That aspect was where my father, Duncan Wolfe, came in. His connections and associations put him at the center of fostering a mutually beneficial relationship with the Primroses, who used generational wealth to buy up half the island.

According to Carl, my father’s direct involvement with both parties made him the perfect scapegoat, which is exactly what Tom and company turned him into.

The list Alistair gave me doxes those involved in the framing and the cover-up, and Carl sits relatively high up because, supposedly, the initial plan was hatched in his brain.

How perfectly ironic that he’s currently in so much agony, he can’t seem to hatch a coherent thought, other than plead for me to stop.

Pushing the ignition on the handheld propane torch, I tilt the W-shaped end of the steak brand—a gift from Alistair one Christmas, and one I keep at The Flaming Chariot—and let the flames heat the metal. The silver tip glows orange, extreme heat radiating off of it and warming my face.

Carl twists in the chair he’s strapped to, sobbing into a dirty rag. Tears stream down his face, which only makes him cry harder as the salty droplets seep into the wounds gracing both cheeks.

“I do believe the W is my favorite letter. It’s so perfectly symmetrical and looks delightful when burned into one’s flesh. Wouldn’t you agree, brother?”

Turning the blow torch toward Carl, I let the flame scorch his bare knee. The smell of singed flesh permeates the office, and part of me considers the logic in bringing work to my pub during business hours.

Oh, well. Carl’s fault for patronizing the place, anyway. It was much easier to take care of him here than chase him down and make a whole thing about it.

Alistair snaps one of his suspender straps against his chest, blowing out a breath. “I don’t have particular feelings about any letters in the alphabet, Jonas. Can we please get on with this? Some of us have meetings to attend.”

“It’s almost midnight,” I point out, reheating the end of the brand.

“I didn’t say it was an official meeting.”

Rolling my eyes, I push into a standing position and set the torch on my desk. Carl’s wet whimpers are music to my ears as I push the rod into his left pectoral, lining it up so it matches the mark on his right.

A hissing sound erupts from the sight, and his head rears back in agony.