Chapter 14

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This therapeutic process isn't what I'd consider wholly "ethical."

Briar

"I really wish you wouldn't," Rowan grumbles.

Sprawled on his desk, I kick my legs and watch his narrow eyes fly across the computer screen in front of him. His left hand darts over the keyboard while his right scribbles notes. It's late.

Truth be told, I'm tired.

But of course it's tiring to be the propelling agent behind dividing up a family as strong as Veleno.

Not many leaders would be able to handle this aftermath as calmly as Rowan is.

Rowan is…something else.

Something unique.

Something beautiful.

He killed Granger, and only Granger, less than an hour ago. He refused to let me tag along and see the torture session, but I was right there with him before he left to see the monster in his basement. I stood beside him as he talked with and divided up the other traitors.

Several, he put in direct police custody. The rest…he let go.

My papa and mama always told me that nothing comes before the family you choose. Sometimes, the families you're born into aren't the right ones. It's a big reason so many people wind up stuck in worlds like ours. But, whatever leads you to it, when you've chosen a family? When you've committed yourself to a blood bond with a family that you've chosen, you don't just walk away.

In this business, no one with a beating heart gets out.

Them's the rules, and I don't make 'em, but if I did, I think I'd make the teeniest tiniest amendment…

"You should have chopped off all their pinkies," I say.

Rowan blinks, and his scribbling pauses. His heavy, dark gaze hits me, lingering. "What?"

I roll onto my back—and his papers—and stretch. "Becoming a made man isn't something you undo. Choosing to join a mafia tangles your fate with the fate of the family. Fate shouldn't be so easily severed. It should at least abide by red string rules."

Glaring down at me, Rowan mutters, "Red string rules?"

"The red string of fate that ties two lovers together by their pinkies." I show him my pinkie. "If anyone dares to break the heart of the family, they should pay with their lives—or their pinkies. Romantic, no?"

"Granger's men are branded as Veleno's. No other families will trust them. This is their chance to turn things around, live a different kind of life—or wind up with their leaders in prison for botching petty crimes. No one I let go has the guts to continue the things I've been working to shut down."

It's like he's not hearing me. "Rowan." I meet his eyes. "Your morals and mercy are very pretty, but you're misunderstanding my goals. You could have had dozens of pinkies to put in a jar. Then you could have put that jar on display. Are you picturing it? The pinkie jar? Isn't it the cutest decoration you can imagine?"

Rowan's lips part. His mouth closes. Dropping his pen, he swipes a hand down his face. "You're not supposed to talk like that while wearing a pink miniskirt." His voice tightens, disturbed. "It's…wrong. Somehow."

It is very clear to me that Rowan has a thing for rules… Dragging one knee up, I let my pink miniskirt fall toward my hips. "That is such an odd way of asking me to strip, pet."

Heat slashes across his pale skin. "Go home, princess."

I grin. "Can't."

"Why not?"

Touching a nail to my lip, I say, "I require thanks for my service today in the form of a goodnight kiss."

He stares, long and hard, then fixes his attention squarely on his computer. "My family is in disarray, and I'll be up all night dealing with it. Gratitude is hardly the emotion that seems most forthcoming."

"I broke a couple eggs for you by uncovering their blatant disobedience. Leave it to a man to be grumpy about a fresh omelet." Sitting up, I toss my legs off the edge of the desk beside him. He glances at them before rolling his eyes back to his computer. I continue, "Are you saying you wish I hadn't prompted this? You'd have preferred I let Granger and his lackeys hurt more people while I did nothing to stop it?"

"No."

I cross my arms. "So? Where's my thank you kiss?"

Rowan rises, planting a palm beside my thigh, and my heart leaps as he angles himself over me. His finger hooks beneath my chin, and for a moment, I think he's actually going to appease my outlandish demand and kiss me. Instead, he asks, "Is there some logical reason behind your wishing I'd chopped off dozens of fingers tonight?"

I let the question roll around in my head, then I reply honestly, "Without a pinkie, a man's gripping strength is at least halved. It reduces threat. My papa taught me that."

"What the—" He curses, gently. "What kind of a father teaches their child that?"

"A good one." I cool my expression. "Mama barely survived having me, so my parents knew I'd be their only heir. They knew the kind of world I'd be growing up in. They didn't want anyone able to take advantage of me, so they taught me what I needed to know." I lay my hand over his on the desk. "They taught me everything that has brought me this far."

Silence gapes between us as he searches my eyes. For several, thundering moments, it feels like he can see right through me, into the depths of…everything.

And I can't stand it.

Turning my head off his curled finger, I drop my chin and stand. Tucked between the desk and his body, I manage a breath. "Since you're withholding my reward, I guess I'll go."

His arms close around me before I get a chance to slip by.

My nerves ignite.

Something deep in my gut revolts at the idea of him—of anyone—offering me comfort when I haven't intentionally manipulated such a response out of them, but I can't stop myself from lingering in the sensation of his strength.

"We'll find them," he says, tone gruff, rumbling against my ear.

His warmth seeps into my veins. His scent—leather and ink and the sharp prick of aftershave—surrounds me.

"We'll find them and make whoever is behind this pay."

It hurts to swallow as tension trickles from my limbs, leaving me more helpless than I've ever been in front of one of my marks. "You were born into the wrong shadows, Rowan," I whisper. "You should have been a billionaire CEO. Fewer fingers to contemplate removing. More charitable tax deductions."

His voice rumbles in a hum against every exposed part of my flesh. "The two notable differences."

Raising my hand, I try to push him away, but my fist closes around his shirt instead, holding him steady. "Do you trust me now?"

"You could have told me your plans. We could have hunted down Granger's lackey sooner."

A humorless laugh escapes me. "You're so single-minded." Looking up, I meet his eyes and smile. "Did you have fun?"

His face twists. "Before or after you put my organs in a blender on the teacups ride?"

"Oh, during, obviously."

His eyes close as he contemplates, no doubt mulling over every detail of the entire day and packing each event into a mental spreadsheet. At last, breath leaves him, and he says, "I'm fond of the noise-canceling earbuds."

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. This dear sweet man. "That's all you liked?"

His eyes open. "The rest of the experience was an unequivocal nightmare."

"Clearly, you are the opposite of a thrill-seeker. Knitting clubs are too crazy for you. You'd complain that the yarn is too abrasive and put rubber guards on the needles."

His frown loses all its ire. Separating himself from me, he untangles my hand from his shirt and places it back at my side. "Are you done?"

"I could go on." But I'm tired. So very tired. And I don't know why it's suddenly so very, very cold. "But I'll spare you if you let me say good night to Bugsy before I head home."

He drops back into his chair. "Sure."

Ignoring the chill working its way under my skin, I head toward the door.

"Briar." Rowan's voice stops me once my hand's on the knob.

I don't bother looking back. "Yes?"

"No more games. From now on, we're partners. If you have information, we have information."

So…business-minded. Smiling down at the brass in my grip, I say, "Unfortunately, games are part of my process, pet. Just be glad I also get results."