Page 75 of Betrayed
“Thank you,” she says, quietly. “Can you put it on the counter for me?”
“Sure.”
I set the mug down—her favorite, the blue pottery one with the little yellow flowers.
I watch her while she brushes her hair in the mirror, one-handed, her other arm folded over her bandaged wound. Her mouth is pulled tight, her jaw tense, not from pain.
She’s planning. Already halfway out that door, running on her own to get what she wants.
“I made calls,” I say without preamble.
She freezes, the hair elastic looped in her one hand.
I take the brush from the counter. “Let me.”
She eyes me. “You know how to do hair?”
“Babygirl, I can tie your wrists to the bed with one hand. I think I can manage a ponytail.” I hold out my hand for the elastic hairband.
She relents, watching me in the mirror as I work. Softly, I stroke her hair up and back until I’m holding it in one hand. God, wouldn’t I love to get behind her on her hands and knees and give this a good tug.
But I won’t touch her until she’s fully healed.
I finish the high ponytail I’ve seen her wear before.
She admires it in the mirror, “Thanks! That’s really good.”
I pick up the tea and hand it to her. A peace offering. This time, she accepts.
I stand there, ass leaning against the edge of the sink, arms crossed over my chest, staring at her in her beauty and strength as she wraps her hands around the mug.
“Tell me more. About the calls.”
“I got in contact with someone who can help.”
The tail of that pony swishes as she cocks her head to the side to study me. “Who?”
“Freya.”
“A woman?”
“Yes. The female head of the Bayne clan. And apparently, an outstanding lawyer.”
“I like that. A mafia queen.” She flashes a smile at me. “Think I’d make a good mafia queen?”
I lean in, lips close enough to brush hers. Her warm breath smells softly of tea. “You’d have to marry a mafia king, first.”
She steps back, tension rising in the air. “Not necessarily.”
“Bayne’s right-hand man is Callum. Freya is his sister. They grew up on the island. Callum’s in Glasgow now, and Freya and her husband, Frederick, are close by. Her men will have eyes on Gretchen in under twelve hours.”
Her gaze sharpens. “And what does she want in return?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, it’s not.”
