Page 57 of Hostile Bond
“André is smarter than his father gave him credit for. He works fast.” His eyes flash. “Something tells me you enjoyed slamming up and down on his dick too. I can understand why you would. Our dicks are pedigree beasts that crave uncompromising satisfaction.”
A deadly vision of the gruesome death this man would meet fires up my veins like a drug.
“We’ll see what my nephew decides is for the best, little viper. Behave yourself, or you’ll end up lying beside your dearly deceased mother.” A ghost of a smirk plays on his lips. “And that would be a really big shame, given your inheritance. But every viper has a short life span, even useful ones.” He steps back and looks left. “Help her to remove that baggy top. And make more coffee for my nephew’s arrival.”
Rough hands haul the hoodie up and over my head. Coldness hits me, but my body doesn't react. I’m numb. Stuck in the middle of a war that would either result in my death or his. Despite my instinct to attack, I’m unarmed and trapped. No one will knock on the door or stop by to check on me.
My weak knees comply when I’m shoved onto a wooden chair. Moments later, another mug of coffee is before me.
“Drink up, little viper. It sounds like my nephew is nearly here.”
From outside, the whirling thwap of sky cutting blades holds Sean’s attention. He strolls to the wooden framed window, peers out, and then slides his gaze over his shoulder to spear me in place.
“When he comes into this shit hole, don’t fucking move, don’t speak, or I’ll cut out your tongue. There are important family issues at stake here. If you try to fuck with me, little viper, I’ll end you just as quickly as I did Bronagh. You won’t see it coming and neither will he. I never hesitate.”
On his last word, a hush spreads over the rolling hills surrounding The Rusty Shamrock. I can’t see outside from my seated position, but I know the pilot escorting Dré has switched off the helicopter’s engine.
A shadow moves across the front window and the door flings open. The atmosphere changes, making my skin tingle in a way I can’t explain. My pulse surges and every hair on my body is hyperaware of my husband's presence.
Sean's chair creaks as he sits deeper. The men flanking him visibly straighten, their bulletproof vests lifting a fraction higher as if they’re uncertain of the man who enters.
The instant my gritty eyes settle on André’s biker jacket and shaded stare, I forget to breathe. His rogue supremacy eats up my attention, making Sean’s existence fade into the background like insignificant white noise.
Between these two men, André depicts effortless dominance, whereas Sean is a lesser entity. There’s no comparison.
Where his uncle dabbles in the shadows, my husband embodies the eternal darkness.
André stands at the entrance, his boots rooted to the slabs as he scans the situation in front of him. Aside from the rise and fall of his broad chest, he remains motionless and stone-cold in his silent assessment.
My heart thunders at the sight of his taut legs clad in slim fitting dark denim and a plain black t-shirt snug to his muscular torso. His hair is tousled and wild on the top of his head, thick windswept strands draping his swarthy forehead.
He’s the epitome of danger and authority in one divine physique.
A hopeful blaze burns inside of me. The foolish urge to run into his arms only curbed by Sean’s quick firing abilities. André cocks his head in my direction, his intense, momentary gaze hidden and his expression stoic. And in a heartbeat, he looks away and prowls in the direction of his uncle’s seated position.
“Uncle Sean.” His deep, sultry voice tingles right through me. “Where’s the mother?”
22
ANDRÉ
“Dré!” My uncle rises and moves in for a friendly hug. “Sorry I couldn't be at your father’s funeral, mate. Business took over. You know how it is. We arrived later than expected and the mother wasn’t here—just this one.”
I lean in and slap his back, gritting my teeth. Our hands clasp in a fake, bullshit handshake. In the seconds his eyes are off my wife, I hunt out her face again and recognize the ferocious flicker in her watchful glare. She doesn't just hate this man––she fucking loathes him.
A wild pulse thrums in her proud neck. Every rise of the skull motif over her tits rises in bursts, and her elegant throat works as she swallows her voice.
I witness it all.
Feelit all.
Dark, puffy crescents hang under siren eyes. But her chin, that perfect heart-shaped chin of hers, holds its place—strong and defiant. Despite her muted bravado, there’s something different about my wife. It's an undetectable wisp of defeat—or worse—trauma.
These men wouldn’t recognize it, but I do. I know my wife from the inside out.
On quick inspection, I don't see any bruises on her pale-skinned forearms or marks of violence around her neck. That pacifies me for the time being.
The t-shirt she had chosen to wear out of all the designer clothes I’d bought for her still covers her petite frame. While her messy sable hair spills over thin shoulders, those dark strands a link from her darkness to mine.
