Page 33 of Freeing Denver
Disbelief almost robs my words. “You can’t do that.”
“It’s already begun, little bird. I have deals with most men in that room. And I am the only McEwan able to.” He tilts his head. “Or has Ronan finally woken up?” I say nothing, his revelation still rolling through me. He touches my chin, lifting my gaze to his. “You have two choices, my love. You reveal you’ve been warming Colt’s bed, and to save face, I kill him, tear apart his business and his name, and leave nothing. Or you do what you’ll eventually do anyway and come back to me.”
This is what I feared the moment I fell for Colt. I knew when Ranger discovered my feelings, he would kill him and destroy what was left of my heart and life. I knew staying here meant a war.
Ranger gazes at me like he loves me. Like he has any idea what love is. “Give it some thought, but don’t let Colt end up like Ethan. It’s tiring, watching you grieve other men.”
I shove him, but he catches my wrists.
Ranger’s body radiates frustration—most likely that he can’t have me, definitely because he can’t rule me.
“Ranger, stop?—”
“Stop what? You always enjoyed this side of me.” His dark gaze travels across my face, landing on my lips. “You like to make me jealous, Denver, you always have, but you never likedthe consequences. I told you once if a man ever touched you like I did, that I’d slit his throat. Do you remember?” I try to pull away from him, but he holds firm. “I said I’d kill him and reclaim you. I’m more than happy to keep that promise.”
He releases my wrists and leaves the room. The walls feel like they’re closing in, and I heave in breaths.
Everything is crumbling, and the men in that room will pick at the carcasses of two of the greatest names in this city’s history if I stay here.
If I walk away, Colt lives. The Harland name continues.
If I stay, the war I’d hoped to avoid will happen when we’re already weak.
It seems like such an obvious answer. A year ago, I’d follow Ranger without question, desperate to save those I love. I’d get to my knees and beg for peace, because fighting Ranger always felt impossible.
But it isn’t anymore.
It isn’t just me against the monster. I have Colt beside me and a family behind me.
And I refuse to only be Ranger Luxe’s wife.
Fuck this.
I stride through the hall and into the dining room filled with men who rule pieces of a city. I toss my wedding ring on the table, the metal clanging as the room falls silent. All eyes are on me.
“It’s good you’re all here so you can hear the truth,” I say, directing my words at the men staring at me. “I left Ranger months ago. I am in love with Colt Harland, and he is Finn McEwan’s son. Ranger is not next in line, and neither is Ronan. Colt is. He’s also awake, alert, and ready to fucking fight, and I will be right by his side.” I shift my gaze to Ranger, his furious stare a balm to my soul. “Touch Colt, and you’ll finally see what I’m capable of. You’ll die by the hand of the woman youclaim you created.” I scan the room. “And you’d all be smart to remember who kept you alive for as long as he did—and will continue to do so long after Ranger Luxe falls.”
I spin on my heel and head for the door.
“Little bird?—”
“My lawyer will be in touch about that divorce,” I say and lift my hand, giving him the middle finger as I walk away. “And my name isn’t little bird. It’s Denver DeLuca.”
Chapter 9
Colt
“He was a good boy. He had his troubles, but he was a good boy.” A woman, whose name I’ve forgotten, is holding my hand and talking about my brother. I’ve heard the same tired line repeatedly today, variations of “Wilder fucked up, but he didn’t deserve to die like that,” and it’s grating on my last nerve.
Or maybe it’s the head and neck ache that feels like someone is drilling into my brain.
Hours of this. Of sympathy, mourning, tears, and kind words. I’ve done this so many times you think I’d be used to it by now, but this is Wilder’s funeral. My brother’s fucking funeral.
The ache blooms across my temple, and I try to refocus on the woman.
Is she still talking? Can’t she see I’m fucking sweating here? How can she not pick up on the fact that I’m one kind word away from screaming?
“I’m sorry, I need to check on my mom,” I lie, pulling my hand from hers and walking away. I head around the edge of the church, away from prying eyes, and take a deep, painful breath.My skin is clammy, my eyes stinging as I try to blink through the pain.
