10
I’m standing for what feels like hours, my legs ache from the prolonged position and I’m growing tired. The room is too warm, and the scent of cigar smoke and whiskey tinges the air. Marcus sits behind a giant desk, clearly trying to compensate forsomethingwith his fingernail tapping incessantly on the hardwood. Two guards stand at the doorway, staring straight ahead at the wall behind Marcus’ head like the good little dogs they are.
A radio crackles and then a raspy voice sounds through the speaker.
“He’s here, over.”
Marcus stands abruptly and smooths his hands down the lapels of his dark suit jacket, tugging at the collar to straighten it out. He fidgets with the cufflinks and then pats at the weapon he has tucked into a holster at his back. He’s nervous which means whoever is about to enter is clearly more dangerous than this man.
That should scare me. It doesn’t.
His eyes dart to me and he curls his lip as if what I have to offer is less than favorable.
Whatever.
He did this to me.
“Stand up straight,” he barks.
With a roll of my eyes, I do as he asks and link my fingers together in front of me, hiding the twitch.
The door to the den opens and a flurry of activity happens, men dressed nothing like the ones in this house file into the room. These guys look casual in dark jeans, dark tees and leather jackets or hoodies. They’re tattooed, rough around the edges but the air around them crackles with power. They’re not people to be messed with. It’s completely silent until the final man steps into the room and finally,finally,my body reacts. Fear makes my heart pound harder, makes my palms sweat and causes my throat to become dry. It’s hard to swallow, a lump the size of a golf ball now sitting there. I peel my tongue from the roof of my mouth, my blood roaring in my ears as my heart thumps wildly.
He's dressed like the rest, in a pair of dark jeans but he wears a white tee and no jacket. Dark tattoos cover both arms, from his fingers all the way up until they disappear under the cuffs of his t-shirt. They snake up his neck, there’s even a small one on the side of his head, barely visible with the short dark hair growing over it.
His eyes are the lightest shade of blue I’ve ever seen, like the Caribbean sea with the sun bouncing off the calm waters. His sharp, stubbled jaw is clamped tight, the muscles in his cheeks jumping with each grind of his teeth. A straight nose with a piercing in one nostril and lips, full and far too soft looking for a man like him are pressed into a flat line. To look at directly, you wouldn’t say he was a huge man, not when compared to the beefcakes Marcus employs or even against Lex and Ryker but he was athletically built, toned and lithe. His clothes fit him perfectly, outlining the hard lines of his abdomen. He surveys the room, first looking at Valentine’s men, and then at Valentine. A quick appraisal later and those eyes made of ice land on me. He surveys me from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. He narrows his eyes each time he comes across a bruise or cut, and I can’t help but squirm under that penetrating gaze.
I don’t feel like I’m in danger when he looks at me. No hostility, no imminent threat which probably means I really am fucked, well and truly.
“Mr Heart,” Marcus steps forward, towards the man he’s just referred to as Mr Heart and his gaze snaps away from me back to my father.
“Don’t,” Heart growls, his English accent strong, sophisticated, curling his lip and stopping Marcus in his tracks, his arm still outstretched ready to shake his hand.
“Kingston,” a melodic feminine voice scolds softly and I look behind him to see a woman stepping in behind him.
Kingston’s nostrils flare and his hands ball into fists at his sides. He doesn’t seem pissed that she’s just interrupted him, if anything his whole demeanor has just switched from killer to protector. The woman comes up next to him, close but not so close it says intimacy and I study the newcomer.
She’s gorgeous. Long, black hair falls around her face like silk, the lights in the room bouncing off the tresses and her skin is flawless but incredibly pale. Her eyes are the same color as Kingston’s, a blue so icy they freeze everything they touch and her pouty, full lips are painted blood red. She has a snow white vibe about her if snow white had all the lethal grace of a lioness.
She’s lithe like the man beside her, tall with a slender yet toned frame, dressed in skin tight black jeans and a white blouse that flows over her torso and a pair of black boots with heels that if I wore I’d likely break an ankle.
She doesn’t survey the room like Kingston did, instead her eyes home in on me instantly and soften. Surely that can’t be right. Why would they be softening?
“Marcus,” Kingston grumbles reluctantly, “This is my sister, Isobel.”
Marcus appears to like Isobel very much if the way he’s devouring her with his eyes is anything to go by. His tongue may as well be hanging out of his face.
A few of Kingston’s men step closer to the lone female in their group, shoulders squaring, a warning to Valentine to back the fuck up.
I’d laugh if I could.
“You did not mention you’d be bringing a female,” Marcus drags his gaze away from the woman and lands back on Kingston.
I can’t gage him. Is he friend of foe?
I scoff internally. Of course he’s foe. Look at him.
There may as well be a neon light flashing above his head that reads DANGER in big bright letters.