Page 46 of Black Sheep

Chapter Eleven

FRONT-ROW SEATS

Axel’s video was the first one Finnan made me watch. Those twenty-one minutes in Finnan Rutherford’s study when I was seventeen changed my life forever. It also placed Axel’s existence in my hands.

Because that life belongs to me. Only me.

I alone will determine when and how the life of the man who killed my father, and tried to kill my mother, ultimately ends. It won’t end tonight. Not if I have anything to do with it. Not until he’s faced every single atrocity he’s committed.

I watch his rigid profile now as he accelerates his sports car up the long drive leading to the Connecticut property. In the early hours of the morning, despite the heavy traffic in Manhattan, the drive took a little over ninety minutes with little conversation save for a query as to which brand of water I preferred when we stopped at a gas station.

He returned with two bottles and uncapped one for me, even going as far as to produce a handkerchief to mop me up when I spilled a few drops.

Gentle. Sexy monster. Caring. Cold-blooded psychopath.

Detachedly, I wonder how many other personalities he hides behind that pulse-wrecking, drop-dead-gorgeous face. Since hearing the name, I’ve googled Taranahar a few dozen times. All the articles I came across recounted atrocities of unthinkable proportions, a few less discreet sites throwing in harrowing pictures of mangled bodies.

Atrocities Axel is elbow deep in. It’s not a leap to pin such barbarism on him. He killed my father, a man he knew was dear to me. He tried to kill my mother, although he has no idea he didn’t succeed. Has no idea she’s lying in a hospital bed thirty miles from here, kept alive by my total compliance and Finnan Rutherford’s whim and blackmail.

Gentle. Sinister. Devilishly beautiful. Murderer.

I drag my gaze from the many-faceted devil as he pulls up in front of the mansion. Grim jawed, he casts a mocking glance at the house he grew up in.

“A marked difference from the last time I visited. Shall we?”

He snaps my seat belt free and steps out of the car. I track his imposing figure, dressed in black designer pants, a light gray V-neck tee and black leather jacket. Despite the July heat, he looks effortlessly cool and sexy as he rounds the hood to open my door.

Chivalrous monster.

Somewhere on a dark night a million years ago, I swore I was done trying to figure him out. But as I take his hand and step out, as he keeps hold of my hand and pins my body to the car, I find myself desperately trying to read him, trying to understand where it all went wrong for him. Where it went wrong for us. Was there ever any hope or was I always completely doomed right from the start?

“Still so serious,” he murmurs, his breath caressing my cheek. “Whatever he’s holding over you must be huge if you look like I’ve brought you to the gallows rather than to the home you’re mistress of.” Despite his mocking words and the lazy thrust of his hips against mine, his eyes are knife sharp, vigilantly cataloguing my every expression. “Care to tell me what it is?”

“No. I just want this visit to be over and done with.”

“Don’t worry, it will be.” He raises the hand still clutching mine, a curious fascination on his face as he slowly links our fingers. Palm to palm, heat singes from one to the other, as if trying to meld our flesh. “I’m not leaving here until I get what I want.”

The sound of a bolt sliding back draws our attention to the double doors of the house. Still gripping my hand, Axel drags me up the short flight of steps, situated between two imposing columns, just as Ronan opens the door.

Although equal in height and stature, Axel cuts a more imperious figure, his military training adding a dangerous edge to an already menacing package. The two men face off for a charged minute before Ronan steps to one side.

Axel strolls in, conducts a sweeping inspection of the marble-floored entry hallway, the grand staircase and light oak-paneled walls. The drapes that hang on either side of the cathedral-like windows are monstrously heavy and haven’t been changed in years.

“I absolutely loathe what you’ve done with the place,” he drawls. “Is this the current trend these days? Perhaps I need to renew my subscription to Thug Homes Monthly.”

A muscle ticks in Ronan’s jaw. “The place hasn’t changed since Ma died, and you know it. And is that all you’ve got? Cheap shots at the decor?”

Axel’s mocking façade drops for a second, and he looks almost disappointed. “You stuck around, brother, despite my warning. You want to see what I’ve got? You just earned yourself a front row seat.”

Ronan swears under his breath before his gaze drops to our linked hands. “Good to see where your fucking loyalties lie, you little slut,” he sneers at me.

In a split second, Axel transforms from bored guest to lethal weapon, ferocious brutality seeping from every pore.

“Call her that again, Ronan. I fucking dare you,” he invites, his voice baby soft with absolute malevolence.

The change is frightening, curiously mesmerizing. I want to look away, ignore the eldest Rutherford son the way I’ve done for more years than I care to count. But this version of Axel—savage defender, blind champion—triggers a long-buried memory. One that captures my attention and refuses to let go.

Axel and I on a beach…a different version of casual conversation with dangerous subtexts folded into malignant subtexts.

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