Carrie #2
I didn’t know if I could outsmart Marcus Ellery. But for the first time since Daddy died, I wasn’t alone. And that was enough to make me finish my breakfast.
I worked the phones before the coffee’s caffeine even hit my veins, thumb dialing by muscle memory while I scanned the window for any sign of another siege.
I told the team it was an emergency—no explanations, just “Everyone. Mansion. Now.” My voice was all iron and zero apology.
I could hear the panic ripple down the line, a dark little joy that made me want to scream or laugh, maybe both.
Shivs never left the kitchen. He’d raided my pantry and set up an operations center on the butcher block: burner phones, broken earpieces, two laptops (both running off his own hotspot, not my Wi-Fi, which he said was “child’s play to hack”).
He’d thrown on a white T-shirt, but it didn’t do shit to hide the tattoos crawling up his neck and arms, or the fact that the shirt was already spattered with grease and coffee.
I paced. There was no point pretending he wasn’t the gravity point in the room—every time I hit the end of my track, I found myself orbiting closer, pulled by the way his hands moved, by the strange composure that came off him in waves.
He’d been a monster last night, pure violence and raw nerve, and now he was humming along to an old Stones song while decrypting text logs.
I poured myself a fresh cup of coffee, trying to ignore the fact that my hands still shook. I added too much cream, watched it bloom and dissolve into the black. “Anything?” I asked, not looking up.
“Some. They were professionals, like I said. But not smart enough to wipe everything,” Shivs said. “Here—take a look.”
I stepped to his side, barely an arm’s length between us, and looked at the screen. A list of incoming numbers scrolled by, all area codes from three states away. “They never called local. No Kentucky numbers.”
“Don’t have to,” he said. “They were ghosts before they even got on the road. The best way to hide in this state is to never exist here in the first place.”
He leaned in, tapping a highlighted line on the screen. The movement brought his shoulder into me—a glancing, casual thing—but it might as well have been a cattle prod. My whole side lit up. I steadied myself against the counter, heart stuttering.
He must have noticed, because he stopped, eyes flicking to my face. “You good?”
“Fine,” I snapped. Too sharp, too fast. I tried to hide it behind a gulp of coffee, but spilled half down the front of my blouse.
He reached out and caught my wrist before I could pull away. His grip was hot, too sure, thumb landing on the pulse point below my palm. My skin went traitor under his touch, nerves buzzing, pulse thrumming so loud I was certain he could feel it.
We stood there, locked up, the kitchen and the world shrinking to just the two of us and the white tile beneath our feet. His eyes—the impossible green of last night—fixed on mine, steady and unreadable. For a beat, I didn’t want to move.
He let go first. “Sorry,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t,” I said, voice ragged. “Just—don’t.”
I wiped my hand on a dish towel, face burning hotter than the coffee spill. “I have a meeting to run,” I said, like I needed to remind myself of my own job. “You’re coming with me. To the boardroom.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Not really my scene.”
“Tough,” I said. “You’re my security consultant now. Congratulations.”
He grinned, a slow curl of lip that turned his whole face dangerous. “You want me in the room, I’m in the room.”
I turned my back to him, pretending to fuss with the coffee. My heart still pounded. I hated how easy it was for him to throw me off balance—a single look, a touch, and I was reduced to the kind of woman who forgot her own coffee order.
“You know they’re going to eat you alive,” he said, matter-of-fact. “Your execs. They smell blood. You’re the only thing standing between them and a golden parachute.”
I shot him a look over my shoulder. “Let them try.”
He nodded, a flash of respect crossing his face. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”
The doorbell rang. It was just past eight a.m., but I’d told them no excuses.
I tossed back the rest of my coffee, ignored the way it scalded my throat, and headed to the foyer.
As I passed, I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror—hair wild, blouse stained, yesterday’s eyeliner smudged below my eyes.
I looked more like a rock star coming off a three-day bender than the CEO of a legacy distillery.
I didn’t care. The time for appearances was over.
In the entryway, Bennet stood clutching a battered briefcase, rain jacket dripping onto the marble.
Behind him, Lila Vargas in heels and a suit, her lips pursed in permanent disapproval.
Evelyn Hart, all in gray, trailed them, face unreadable behind a pair of tinted glasses.
Celia Monroe, the queen of Southern hospitality, was last, hair immovable, pearls gleaming.
They filed in, one by one, forming a standoff line in the foyer. The old order, waiting for instructions from a princess they’d never wanted to serve.
I cleared my throat. “Conference room. Ten minutes. No arguments.”
Bennet opened his mouth, but I cut him off with a look.
When I turned back toward the kitchen, Shivs was already there, arms folded, watching. He’d pulled the T-shirt tight, the sleeves rolled up to expose the black runes twisting along his forearms. He looked at the four execs like a bouncer deciding which one to toss first.
“You have a conference room in your house?” Shivs asked.
“You’ll sit at my left,” I told him. “No talking unless I ask you to.”
He smiled like he couldn’t wait to break that rule.
As the execs filed past, Lila gave Shivs a slow up-and-down, her eyes lingering a shade too long. “Interesting choice,” she said, only loud enough for me to hear.
“He’s a specialist,” I said. “He’s already proven his value.”
She arched an eyebrow, but didn’t argue. Even she could smell the threat off him.
The others followed, each giving Shivs a wide berth, each pretending not to stare at the tattoos or the scars or the way he seemed to occupy more space than any normal man. I wondered if they could sense, the way I could, that something in him was barely leashed, waiting for an excuse.
As I led them toward the boardroom, I felt his presence at my back—silent, watchful, never more than a half step behind.
My body tracked every shift of his weight, every rustle of cotton against skin, every breath he took.
It should have scared me, but it didn’t. If anything, it made me walk taller.
Shivs looked up, eyes hooded. “You ready for this?” he asked.
“Do I have a choice?”
He shook his head, a slow smile creasing his jaw. “You always have a choice.”
That pissed me off, but not enough to slow me down.
I ducked into my bedroom and pulled the first clean suit from the closet—a black blazer, slim pants, and a white shirt.
No time for makeup. I knotted my hair into a bun, washed the bourbon and coffee from my teeth, and stared at the CEO mask in the mirror until it felt like mine again.
When I came out, Shivs was waiting, arms crossed over his chest. He looked me over, this time not hiding the approval in his gaze.
“You clean up good,” he said.
“Try to keep up,” I shot back.
He followed me down the hall, footsteps silent even on the old wood. My mind raced through the playbook, but my body was thinking only of the way he filled the space, of the heat radiating off him even at a distance.
I made it to the boardroom with seconds to spare, the four execs already seated, laptops open, phones facedown. I took the head of the table, Shivs at my left.
The instant I sat, the games began.
Bennet launched first, voice oiled with regret. “Carrie, with all due respect, the market is moving against us. There’s talk—serious talk—of a hostile buyout.”
“Who’s talking?” I said.
He hesitated. “Marcus Ellery.”
Of course.
Lila cut in, tapping her phone. “We have three lawsuits filed in the past 48 hours. All nuisance suits, but they’ll tie up capital and resources.”
Evelyn Hart simply observed, eyes shuttered, hands folded. She was waiting to see who bled first.
Celia offered a weak smile. “We could try to smooth it over, host an industry dinner—remind everyone what Stillwater means to Kentucky.”
I almost laughed. “We’ll serve them up, all right.”
Shivs said nothing, but his presence was an exclamation point at my side.
He rubbed his hands together, and moments later, his scent hit my senses.
I breathed him in as if I were breathing in an expensive cologne.
Then, I felt his presence on my skin, soft and stirring.
What the fuck was he doing to me, and why now?
He watched me from the corner of his eye.
He knew exactly what was going on with me.
I ran the meeting like a trial, cross-examining each exec, cutting off the dead wood and threats before they could metastasize.
Every so often, I glanced at Shivs, felt the steadying heat of him.
He watched me not like a subordinate, but like a partner in the foxhole.
It made me braver than I had any right to be.
When it was over, when I’d finished gutting Bennet’s doom scenarios and Lila’s legal panic, I stood.
“Stillwater isn’t for sale,” I said. “Not now, not ever. Anyone who thinks otherwise can find the door.”
I looked at each of them in turn, daring a challenge.
They blinked first.
Afterward, the four execs filed out in silence. I let the hush settle, then let myself breathe.
Shivs leaned in. “You did good,” he said, voice pitched just for me. “They won’t see you coming.”
I looked at his hands, at the bruised knuckles and veins that pulsed under the skin.
I wanted, for one brief and dangerous second, to reach out and touch them.
Hell, I wanted to be like him. To have the wolf within.
I remembered what happened to his cock when I was rubbing his fur, the shape of the thing at its base, how it reacted to me stroking his fur. I shook the thought from my mind.
“You okay?” he asked. “It’s like your mind went somewhere else.”
Hell yeah, it did.
I buttoned my jacket. “You’re coming with me to the distillery. I want eyes everywhere.”
He grinned, feral. “Wherever you go.”
In the hallway, I let him follow a step behind. But I felt his gaze on my back, tracking every movement. My skin tingled with it, alive in a way I hadn’t known in years.
We made it out to the driveway, the morning light now harsh and white, the bikes still lined up like sentinels. I opened the car door, paused with my hand on the frame.
“Get in,” I said.
Shivs chuckled. “I’m a biker. I’ll follow you on my bike.”
As I pulled out onto the road, I caught his profile in the side mirror—the green eyes, the jaw set for war, the half-healed wound on his neck.
I didn’t trust him.
But I wanted him beside me, every step of the way.