Page 64 of The Outlaw's Savage Revenge

Because Luna isn’t the mark. Her father is.

I drag a hand through my hair, restlessness crawling under my skin like ants. Why can’t she be open with me? My rescues are usually grateful and malleable. One gentle push and they spill their guts like a punctured vein.

One call to Kat, and I could have Luna’s whole life laid bare in the time it takes to load a clip. My fingers itch toward the burner phone, but I stop myself.

I want Luna to trust me enough to tell me on her own.

And since when do I give a damn about earning the trust of someone I’m not about to kill?

I look over at Saint, who’s sitting in the corner, his eyes fixed on me like I’ve just committed a cardinal sin. “And you,” I snap.

Saint’s ears twitch.

“I thought you were antisocial? Thought you hated strangers getting too close? But Luciana? She waltzes in here, a whirlwind of purr and sass, makes eyes at you, and suddenly you’re ready to take me down for her?”

Saint looks away, but not before I catch the way his head lowers a fraction, effectively chastised.

To be fair, I can’t blame Saint. After all, I did command him tolock it downwith Luna. Which to Saint means to guard her to the death. And then I fucking praised him for the effort he made in warming up to her.

Needing to give him the guidance he deserves, I cross the room, and crouch down to meet Saint’s eyes. He immediately stands taller, body tense, ears pinned forward, ready to obey. I place a firm hand on his shoulder, grounding him, then nod toward the hallway.

“Listen, Luciana’snot hurt.“ I give a quick, subtle hand signal—fingers pointing downward for “bed,” then reinforce the command with my tone.

“When Luciana’s screaming with Cade, St. Michael you are to stand down and go to bed.”

Saint holds my stare a heartbeat too long—testing boundaries. Then he folds down like a deactivated weapon, tucking his head with a sigh that says he’ll obey, but he’s not happy about it.

“Good boy,” I murmur. He’s too smart for his own good sometimes. We’ll need to run this drill again, but he’ll adapt. He always does.

Rising, my attention catches on that scrap of paper on the counter—Jacques Devereaux’s email scrawled in wide angry loops. With a chuckle, I crumple it into a tight ball before pitching it into the trash.

Paris my ass. I took a gamble and pushed her buttons hard. The look in her eyes and the droop of her shoulders as she stormed off told me everything she’s too stubborn to admit.

This princess doesn’t want her gilded cage. She wants to run with the wolf. She looks at me like I’m a dark savior—her personal demon with a rescue complex.

And Christ help me, a twisted part of me craves that look in her eyes. Because somewhere between her taming my dog and trying to tame me on that counter, I’ve come to terms with one fact: there’s no scenario where I’m letting her go.

I grab the burner phone off the counter, head to the living room, and drop onto the couch. I dial a number I know by heart. The line rings, echoing in the quiet.

“Who is this?” A suspicious rasp, roughened by years of cigars.

“The better question,” I drawl, “is whether you’d like to see your daughter again, Alfred.”

Silence. Then comes the icy tone that does nothing to keep his men in line. “I asked who the hell this is.”

“Think of me as a vault,” I reply, crossing one boot over the other on the coffee table. “A vault to hold on to Luna until all of my terms are met.”

His breath catches. “If this is a joke—”

“I assure you it’s not,” I settle deeper into the couch. “But feel free to wait until she doesn’t come home tonight. Then send your best men, empty your arsenal . . . the completely useless works. Or, you could hear what I’m about to say now.”

A beat of silence. Then, a sinister chuckle. “You must be one of those dirty lowlifes my daughter surrounds herself with. What, you thought you’d leech off Luna some more? Squeeze her Papa for ransom? Well, I can tell you this for free; you’re a dead man.”

“Dirty?” I sigh, letting a dark smile edge my words. “If only you knew how obscenely filthy I plan to get her.” I let the innuendo slide like poison between us.

His breathing changes—controlled, measuring his response. I’ve struck a nerve, but he’s a man accustomed to negotiations, even with a gun to his head. “Name your price, you son of a bitch,” he commands, voice hard as granite.

A laugh scrapes up my throat. “You couldn’t pay me enough money to hand her over, Alfred. No, what it’ll cost you to get her back is very simple. One life.” I let that sink in while I picture his throat working, eyes narrowing as he fights to keep his voice steady.

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