CHAPTER 23
Luna
Or maybe we won’t.
He won’t.
Because he’s never around. The few times I’ve seen him the last two days, since the nasty boot business morning before last, he’s barely acknowledged me, even in my skimpy workout sets. I would think he’s avoiding me but he doesn’t seem interested enough in me to avoid me.
Which pisses me off.
It’s boring and lonely and again, ruining my plans.
“Plus, I’m not learning anything, Mar. Not a damn thing,” I tell my dog.
I swear he grunts in agreement. We’ve walked through the entire estate, including an Olympic-athlete-level gym built off of one wing of the house.
I walked the grounds again, even venturing into the woods a ways before chickening out.
Tiny has taken to following me which is both comforting and unnerving at the same time.
Quinn is as much a mystery as Vix reported. Everyone is just walking around, Mini Quinns and little Sheilas, doing manual labor. Happily. I’ve caught more than one dude whistling.
Fucking whistling?
I have also realized in the few times I’ve observed my husband with this clan, Quinn’s men, they’re not afraid of him. Not at the level they should be. They make loads of eye contact and almost talk to him like he’s one of their broseph buddies. He threatened to cut my brain in half!
So. He’s possibly bipolar. Or he’s gone softer than the rumors imply and his men are just waiting to launch a mutiny.
That’s my current working theory. That he’s weakened, tired out and started letting his soldiers do the dirtiest work, the leader’s work.
He’s only thirty-four, which is extremely young for a don.
But if his mind is starting to crack, age doesn’t matter. Someone stronger will usurp him.
“But who,” I ask aloud as I venture to the woods again.
It’s the only stone I’ve left unturned. I’ve had a full breakfast, I’ve got two knives on me, surprised to find them still in their case in my closet, and Tiny is around, though I can’t see her at the moment.
I wish I could. These woods are dense, quiet and creepy as hell.
Who will hijack Quinn’s throne? Whoever it is, that’s who I should be targeting. When they step in, I’ll offer myself as their willing wife and start my sleuthing all over again. There are older captains, I’ve seen them come and go, even though they don’t live on the grounds. That’s my best—
GUH!
HA!
I pause to process what I’m hearing.
“Again!” A deep voice says. More grunting. Someone is out here fighting? Torturing?
I freeze, fighting my inner survivor brain that defaults to Run away, you idiot! And my years of training and plotting that urges me, finally, something interesting out here! Go see what you can learn!
I move toward the sound with purpose, but slowly enough that I’m not making much noise.
Leaves and needles crunch under my feet but the closer I get to the sounds, the more I’m convinced they won’t hear me coming.
It’s more than two men and some of them are cheering or heckling, clearly watching the fight.
“DOH!” Someone’s hit in the gut. I pick up speed. I round a corner and see a clearing, a makeshift rink of dirt inside a ring of trees. Maybe whoever is planning to dethrone my husband is out here traini—
Oh.
“Ugh!” A man bellows as Quinn tries to cut his body in half with another blow to the gut. Then to the head. Then with a swipe of his foot the man is down on the ground. Quinn steps back so the guy can get up, then advances again. Unbelievably fast.
My husband is in a black dry-fit t-shirt and dark combat pants, those huge black boots I washed. His arms are like the tree trunks around us yet I can hardly focus my eyes on them because they keep moving so fast. The soldier doesn’t have a chance.
I gasp as a second man attacks Quinn from the rear. Without even looking, the man I’m married to quickly twists to punch the second attacker right before turning and kicking the first.
“What?” I whisper. More of a shocked exhale, really.
I’ve seen fighters. Good ones. Great ones. But always one on one. Never two on one. Never a fucking don against his own men.
The second guy manages to slam his fist into Quinn’s lower back. A move that I know must have hurt, since the kidneys are a weak spot. But he barely grunts and then turns and smashes his fist into the man’s face and then ribs. The first attacker gives up, laying nearby.
The second guy tries to rally but Quinn just keeps going at him, going and going and going, like a force moving through the man, like the attacker is mist, air, nothing.
Next, a knife is thrown from somewhere. Quinn dodges it.
Another knife. It lodges into Quinn’s forearm but he pulls it out like it’s a splinter. Blood begins to seep down his arm.
A new fighter enters the cleared dirt boundary, charging with wild eyes.
Quinn’s eyes, in contrast, are calm. His face, his whole being seems almost serene, even as he delivers blow after blow.
The new fighter is a much smaller man but he’s fast and well-trained.
He manages to land a blow to Quinn’s kidneys, the same spot he was hit before. Smart.
But Quinn, even while huge and panting, levels him with a slam to the throat.
I gulp.
I’ve never seen anything like this.
Yet again, I was absolutely, completely wrong.
Quinn is not tired or soft.
And there’s no way in hell anyone would try to usurp him.
“Wife,” he says when the barrage has stopped.
Oh shit.
I forgot I was here.
I square my shoulders, lift my chin and breathe. I’m not afraid. I’m a fighter too. This is fine.
Quinn looks down at my body, which I realize is covered in goosebumps.
I refuse to let myself shiver in my skimpy white cropped tank tops and leggings.
It’s cooler out today than I thought, but that’s not why I have the chills right now.
Quinn’s eyes travel up to my face again before commanding, “Mac, get her my jacket.”
His second grabs a jacket from a knot on a nearby tree where it was hung and walks to me. He starts to hold it out for me but the deep gravely voice cuts through all of us again, sharper this time, “She can put it on herself.”
“Thanks,” I say to Mac. I hate that my voice sounds weak. I look back at Quinn, straight in the eyes, holding the contact and refusing to back down, despite my instincts.
Quinn waits a beat, I think to see how long I’ll stand my ground, before saying, “Now, why don’t you be a sweet lass and go get us some lemonade?
” My mouth parts at the audacity of this man.
He hasn’t spoken to me directly in two days and he wants me to go get him some lemonade?
Before I can protest he lifts a brow, “Please, wife.”
I shut my mouth, try to offer a quick smile, turn, and hurry away, before I accidentally tell my husband to kindly go fuck himself in front of all his men. Or a handful of them, anyway.
As I go I hear a bunch of his dogs approach.
Behind me, his voice changes. Once I’m around the corner I pause to sneak a glance back.
Quinn is squatting down to pet his muts.
Not just pet them, but hug them. And now…
is he…he is fucking talking in a bonafide high, crooning dog-mom voice, muttering their praises in Gaelic?
What the hell?!
He is definitely bipolar then. Or has split personalities? How did he just go from making me almost pee my pants with fear at how he decimated multiple attackers at once, to baby talk?
Something here does not add up. I need to puzzle it out, think it through. Away from here. I’m shaking as I stomp through the brush. Tink happily trots by my side rather than staying by her master. She pants up at me, almost mocking.
“Yeah, I was wrong. Again,” I say to the dog. I’m always talking to canines now. I’m losing it.
But.
I did learn that they train out here in the woods.
Why? They have a huge state-of-the art gym at their disposal.
There were only a handful of men with him.
Which ones? Why them? Where are the others?
Are these men going to head back to the house and scrub toilets now? Trim the damn bushes? I bet they are.
This…this is insane. I’ve thought myself into useless circles. I need to talk this out.
I stalk to the mansion, purposely avoid the kitchen and rec rooms and any other spot that I might get lemonade from—because absolutely not— and go to my beloved couch in Quinn’s room.
I dig out my phone and dial the number I memorized because I still don’t know how to work this old, folding, typewriter data-less piece of crap Quinn calls a phone.
“Luna!” Ellie answers right away.
“Ellie,” I smile.
She starts ranting, “Thank God, you’re alive! I was so worried because you said only to call your new number and it gave me the your call cannot be completed message over and over. Are you okay? Tell me you’re okay!”
“I’m okay.”
“Oh, thank God!”
I can’t help but chuckle, she’s so worked up. “You said that already.”
“Well, I thought you could be dead!”
“I don’t think it’d be a good move for Quinn to end his new partnership in week one. Though he did threaten to cut my head down the middle.”
“He what?!”
“Yeah. Things are weird, El, things are weird.”
She squeaks, “Was that because he discovered your second phone? How did he find it?”
“I—” well, shit, “I don’t know, actually. Maybe I didn’t do a good job of hiding it, it was tucked into my skirt, he took it away right when we got here the first night.”
She hums and then warily asks, “And…that night? Oh man, did he...”
“No, No! He didn’t! Which is surprising, right? Skulls the psycho is actually not a rapist? Everything here is surprising, that’s what I called to tell you.”
“Okay?”