Page 59 of Pretty Little Threats

Remy

Conor’ll take my place.

Dare

Thanks.

Any reason Rose is covered in hickeys?

Any reason you’re still texting me when you’re supposed to be guarding her?

Don’t forget who she is.

Frowning at the device, I lock it and toss it aside. Remy is right. Rose might be fun to play with, and fucking her might be entertaining, but she’s still wrapped up in Joseph’s threads. Her loyalty will always lie with him.

Unless I can make her see him for the monster he is.

Hell, he did part of my job for me by arranging a marriage without her input or consent. Rose faces the world with a hard mask, but I’ve seen beneath it a few times. She’s strong because she has to be.

Joseph hasn’t given her a choice.

Something about the way she nearly panicked this morning while looking at her phone and seeing the missed calls from her dad settles uneasily against my chest. I’ve known a few people with assholes for parents. I’m not surprised good old Joe is one of the bad ones. Though I can’t be sure that he’s physically hurt her, the way she tucks away all her emotions and carefully watches those around her is enough to tell me he’s fucked with her head.

Demeaned her. Shamed her. Used his words to get inside her head and manipulate her. Do I really care?

Yes, because maybe it means she’s another person he hurt.

The doorbell rings, and I scowl, pulling up the security camera feed on my phone, sighing when I see Crue winking at me.

Taking in his wrinkled black V-neck and the dark circles under his eyes, I press the mic button. “Another rough night?”

“Come on, Dare, let me in before someone recognizes me.”

“Hmm. I don’t know. I can see the tabloids now—Crue Rollins, heir to Bluestar Entertainment, caught making a late morning walk of shame. Again.”

Crue smacks the door. “Dare, let me in, man. I’m too hungover for this shit.”

“Fine, but you shower, change, call your driver, and get out.”

“Okay.”

I may regret this, but I suspect Rose will be out for a while. Besides, she probably already knows Crue is in my circle of friends. He’s a notorious playboy and will flirt with anything and anyone who walks. The thought of her seeing Crue in person has me reconsidering letting him in, but Crue saysplease, meaning the fucker is in bad shape.

Crue never says please, and he’s not usually in a position to use his manners.

I buzz Crue in and leave the office, meeting him in the kitchen, where he’s guzzling water. “By all means, make yourself at home.”

“Thanks, man.” The strands of his long dark hair are all askew, like he—or someone else—has been running their hand through it all night long. He also smells like a bottle of tequila and bad decisions.

I wrinkle my nose. “What was her name this time?”

Crue sighs and refills his cup. “Tina. Cute, but a rich and entitled brat. She gave terrible head.”

I lift an eyebrow and briefly wonder how Rose would do. Something tells me my wife would give me the best blow job I’ve ever had, just to have something to use against me. The thought has me stiffening in my pants.

Crue takes another sip and glances around. “So, how’s the money business?”

“Like you care about that,” I tell him with a shake of my head. “Everything is fine.” Lie. “How’s entertainment?”

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