Page 10 of Dirty Delivery

He doesn’t answer. Instead, his gaze drops to my lips before snapping back up to meet my eyes. The air between us shifts, charged with something I don’t want to acknowledge. My pulse quickens, and I hate that he can probably hear it.

“You’re staying here,” he says finally, his voice like steel. “And that’s the end of it.”

My anger flares, cutting through the tension. “You don’t get to decide that. I didn’t ask for your protection, and I sure as hell didn’t ask to be kidnapped and held hostage in your stupid mansion.”

He steps back, his jaw tight. “Fine. Think what you want. But you’re not leaving.”

“Watch me,” I say, pushing past him toward the door.

Before I can reach it, his hand catches my arm. It’s not rough, but it’s firm enough to stop me. I spin to face him with a glare.

“Let go of me,” I hiss.

For a moment, he doesn’t move. His grip loosens slightly, but he doesn’t let go. “Savannah,” he begs, his voice softer now. Almost pleading. “Please. Just trust me.”

Something in his tone gives me pause. It’s not just commanding; it’s desperate. Vulnerable. I don’t know what to make of it, and that scares me almost as much as his intensity.

He lets go and steps back, his expression shuttered. “Stay in this room. I’ll come back when I can explain everything.”

“Don’t bother,” I snap, turning away.

The door closes behind him, and I’m left alone, my anger and confusion swirling in equal measure.

I don’t know what Rylan’s deal is, but one thing is clear: I can’t stay here. Not with him. Not like this.

Chapter Nine

Rylan

Declan’s voice is already ringing in my ears before I’ve even closed the front door of his sleek, glass-walled penthouse.

“You’re late,” he snaps. He leans against the massive kitchen island with a glass of something expensive in his hand and that same self-satisfied smirk he’s worn since birth. “Did you get lost driving that shitty delivery van of yours?”

“Nice to see you too, Declan,” I shoot back, shrugging out of my jacket and tossing it over a chair. “Miss me that much, huh?”

He raises an eyebrow. “What I miss is you keeping a low profile. Instead, you’re off playing house in that gaudy mausoleum of yours while everything goes to shit.”

“Playing house? Seriously?” I scoff, crossing the room. “You’re one to talk. Living it up in this glass palace while I’m stuck dealing with—”

“Oh, please.” He cuts me off, setting his drink down with a sharpclink. “Don’t act like you’re some martyr. You’ve been dodging responsibility since the day you grew a backbone and decided you were too good for the family business.”

“Maybe because the family business sucks,” I snap, and my temper flares. “Sorry if I’m not thrilled about smuggling, extortion, and—oh yeah, murder.”

Declan narrows his eyes, stepping closer. “Speaking of murder, care to explain why the Castillos think we’re responsible for Vinny’s disappearance?”

My stomach churns, but I keep my expression neutral. “No idea,” I lie, leaning against the counter. “Maybe they should look in the mirror. Vinny’s not exactly Mr. Popular.”

Declan doesn’t buy it. He never does. “Cut the crap, Rylan. I know you’re hiding something. What did you do?”

I hesitate for a split second too long, and his eyes narrow, like he’s trying to read my mind with his damn eyes. Fuck.

“Rylan,” he says slowly, his voice dropping an octave. “What. Did. You. Do?”

“Fine!” I throw up my hands, pacing away from him. “Vinny’s dead, okay? It was an accident.”

Declan’s expression swings from annoyed to murderous in record time. “You killed him?”

“I didn’t plan for him to die!” I snap, spinning to face him. “He was attacking someone. I pulled him off, and he . . . hit his head. On a statue.”

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