Page 4 of Vow to Protect
By his narrowed black eyes mirroring the shadows, I’m uncertain if he’s as heartless as Blaine or simply wary. Broad shoulders lift his torso, confidence spanning his aura. This guy is all height, with an unbreakable silent assessment that rattles me to the core.
“Are you, Brett?” I clear my throat. “Brett De Courcy?”
The mention of his name brings him a step closer, into the light. An angular jaw ticks when the light refracts, accentuating those distinct cheekbones and unreadable dark eyes.
He crosses his arms over his chest, keeping long legs firmly planted in a dominant stance. “Who are you?” A suspicious glare sweeps up and down, following clipped words. “Well?” he snaps.
Compared to any man I’ve ever met, Brett De Courcy lives in another league with a precisely pointed nose, defined chin scattered in unshaven inky prickles and tight pouty lips. He's forged from years of wealth and an abundance of well-proportioned pieces, equally as perfect as the other. I pray there’s a glimmer of kindness, a charitable quality of compassion.
Brett glances backwards, then unfolds his arms and covers the space between us with a predatory swagger. Fluid movements project distrust, matching my own. His incredulous inspection triggers a wave of worry. I’ve spent too many nights awake, listening to the unsteady staccato of my heartbeat and cowering under the sheets, waiting for Blaine to give me another unfair choice. I’ve counted down the seconds. Biding my time, and now I’m here, shaking like a leaf.
I’m not naturally a bloodthirsty woman, yet when Blaine destroyed a part of me, my only living relative, he evoked an unshakeable appetite within me to kill him. It coated my otherwise calm personality with a sticky black sludge of vengeance that crept to every cell of my being. Then the bastard offered me the chance to live and carved out his ownership across my heart. In my darkest hour, I’ve visualised revenge, but with his men flanking his every move, it’s impossible.
Dark eyes, so intense and pensive, pin me to the pavement. Brett won’t notice much, not with my drab and baggy clothes, and the peak of a stolen cap shading my face. Full lips part, ready to speak, yet a deep frown shows zero desire to hold a conversation.
“Don’t make me repeat myself.” He gazes down at me with ox like shoulders pulled back. “Who are you, and how do you know my name?”
His looming stature, with an air of gentry, catches me off guard. A misleading wave of goosebumps burst beneath my clothes, tingling over healing wounds. Already tense muscles go rigid, readying to take flight. My reaction to him is all wrong. Temptation crisscrosses each rib in turn, wrenching at my senses when the scent of fresh manly sweat wafts between us, laced with a wicked hint of sandalwood. This handsome man fucked a stripper, no doubt more than once. A show of rebellion for a man who could have the pick of any wealthy beauty.
“You knew my sister,” I say breathlessly, stuffing my hands under opposite armpits.
A low growl morphs into a dismissive blast of air down his nostrils. “Right.” Large hands rest on narrow hip bones, and he waits. “A name would be helpful. I know plenty of women.” His head cocks, and he frowns. “Well?”
I suck in and let her name roll off my tongue. “Natalie Cartier.”
The quick movement takes me by surprise. He latches onto my hoody, backing me into a wooden pole. Light cascades to the pavement from the lantern above like the path to heaven is waiting. I brace for pain. My entire insides falter.
“Wait.” The plea raises my voice an octave higher. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
The crease furrowed in his brow deepens, and he uncurls his fingers immediately. “Who the fuck are you?” He looks back over his shoulder to the apartment block again, then returns his uncertain gaze back to me. Emotions rip through his flexed form and his spine stiffens. “Are you trying to bribe me?” A sharp spoken pitch makes me shiver.
In a silent beat, his lashes lower, and he takes a noticeable step back. A prickle of intrigue, soured by panic, skitters from my belly to my toes. Brett holds his forefinger to his lips, eyeing me with narrowed suspicion. Confusion reigns. An out-of-control emotion akin to unapparelled attraction clouds my risk. I hate how I’m drawn to him. There’s no comprehensible reason. He’s the father of my big sister's kid.
“Brett, she’s dead,” I announce. It’s the first time I’ve set that statement free. The reality only serves to amplify my grief. My chin hitches. I exhale in a gust, stifling a sting of tears.
I resent how I’m in this position. How my future is in the hands of a man so cultured and absurdly wealthy. But here we are. I’m desperate and no longer independent. Without hope, the wrath of my captor will penetrate my beating heart.
He stares at me with wide black eyes, like my statement has eclipsed the moon. “Natalie is dead? I don’t believe you. I would have heard something.”
“It happened two weeks ago in my apartment.” I let out a steadying breath. “In Spain.”
The ball in his throat bobs, and I wonder if he cared about her, even though she was barely in his life. “How did it happen?”
His eyes drift up to the night sky like he’s looking for a star to pin her soul to. My stomach twists when I recognise the pain he so cleverly tries to hide. It's there, I can see it masked behind his grave gaze. Whether my sister put it there or someone else did, we both feed off a similar pain. We’ve both lost someone.
In a flash, I remind myself of the reason I have waited in the rain to speak to him. The hands of time are spinning. Blaine’s men will hunt me down any minute.
“She was murdered.” I struggle to contain the tremor in my voice. A ragged whimper forces him to retreat with a stagger. It would never be an easy statement to make.
Brett’s track shoes scuff the damp ground as he backs away, eyes narrowed and obscure. Distrust cloaks his wide stance and guarded upper body. “Who killed her?” he bites out.
“Blaine.” I lower my chin and pull my sleeves over my hands. “Blaine Casey.”
He’s quiet for three heart palpitations, eyes lowered to the black river of rain draining into the road. “If this is true, I appreciate the information.”
“It is true. I…” I have no proof. “She told me to find you.”
“Why?” he demands, raising his chin. “If she’s really dead, then why areyouhere?”
