Page 30 of Brutal Bond

She is at the door a moment later dressed in frumpy sweatpants, but her makeup and hair are fully done. She’s looking as beautiful as ever.

Too fucking beautiful for him.

Grabbing Harper’s wrist, I drag her through the main living area and down the hall to her bedroom. Pulling her inside, I shut the door, grip her throat, and tip her face up to mine.

“You don’t have to do this.” I place a rough kiss on her lips. “But you can. Nothing changes.”

I don’t even know what this is.

Slipping my hand into her pants, I cup her bare cunt. “This is mine, little rose. I’m not done with you yet.”

Nearly a week of her—spilling myself inside of her at least once daily—and I still can’t fucking get enough of her.

“You do what you need to do.” I pull my hand from the front of her sweats before kissing her hard and deep.

If she is doing this, she’s going to do it with the taste of me on her tongue.

“But if you tell me to make him go away, I’ll happily oblige. And you’ll never see him again.”

Neither will anyone else.

“I’m good,” she mumbles against my lips.

“If you change your mind?—”

“I know,” she interrupts me. “You’ll be my first call.”

Walking away from her, I hate the position that she’s in. If we’d have just fucking killed him, this wouldn’t be happening. But I know Will is right about the heat that will bring on all of us. Heat that will lead us all straight to the death chamber.

Opening the door, I nearly bump into Detective Asshole on my way out. “Hmph, Detective Michales. Funny running into you here. Are you related to Nikki?”

“Um, yeah,” he lies, assuming he isn’t blackmailing his niece to fuck her.

“I’d love to catch up,” I spread a fake grin across my face, “but I need to get back to Adelaide Cove.”

Where I’m going to figure out how to put your ass in the ground.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

HARPER

Taking a seat on the couch by Nikki, I squeeze her hand as we both catch fragments of the interaction happening in the hallway between Eddie and the detective.

With the door left open, Michales lets himself inside. The face he makes upon seeing the two of us on the couch is strange, but I can’t quite place it.

Disappointment?

He shuts the door behind himself and locks it before storming across the room. Standing over us, he is clearly angry when he asks, “What the fuck was Edmund Parker doing here?”

“He stopped by asking to see me again,” I lie.

“And what did you say?” He tips his head with the same inquisitiveness as a dog.

“I told him I’d have to think about it,” I lie again, hoping he can’t tell.

“Did you fuck him?” His accusation is laced with envious jealousy.

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