Chapter Nineteen
In which Sloan must deal with an enraged Scotsman.
Ethan…
I dinna know ya could have a rage whiteout.
The fury pulsing inside me dims my vision with a white haze. I dinna know whether to shake the hell out of this little idiot or kiss her senseless. Sloan not only has an impressive talent for landing in trouble, she is also unburdened of any desire to do as she is told.
“How did you find me?”
Michael answers for me, giving me a sympathetic look. “We were staking out all the internet cafes and cash app stores. Ewan saw ya two walk in and called us.”
“Kindly tell him ‘go to hell’ for me, would you?”
Sloan’s veering dangerously into the realm of No Fucks Left to Give, she is. Michael chuckles, glancing at me quickly. “This is for the best, lass. I dinna think ya understand-”
“Shut up,” she hisses. “Just shut the hell up. I know I’m going to die but I’m not telling you shit.”
He looks at me, puzzled, and I shake my head.
Let her be terrified. Maybe that’ll keep her in line.
She stays stubbornly silent, looking out the window as the driver pulls into the underground garage of my building. I know she’s feart, she has a death grip on the door handle and her breathing is shallow. My palm is itching with the need to spank this wee beast, just spank her skin raw and let her cry.
Tightening my hand into a fist, I force my breathing to slow down. This isn’t the time to discipline her, not when I’m this fecking furious.
Pulling her out of the back seat, I keep a tight grip on her arm, hauling her into the lift. Michael’s following us, hands in his pockets and brow furrowed, all concerned and shite, like he dinna think I know what the feck I’m doing. His Da, Uncle Cormac, may be the MacTavish Clan Chieftain, but Michael’s got no place gettin’ involved here.
“Hey, mate. Talk a minute?”
I nod toward my driver, Patrick. “Put Miss Masters in the lift and keep her there.”
“Aye, Boss.” He more or less herds Sloan into the lift, his long arms out but very carefully not touching her.
“What is it?” I rub the bridge of my nose, trying to make my fury recede.
“I know ya, brother.” He’s watching me, his eyes keen and troubled. “I know you’re not gonna hurt that girl, but… Ya want me to take her home to the estate? You know my Ma would take good care of her. You can keep the heid and pick her up tomorrow?”
“No need,” I say coldly. “Ya know I’d never hurt her. But I’m gonna scare her good. I canna keep her safe if she keeps running off.”
He eyes me for a moment before huffing out a dramatic sigh. “I trust ya. Good luck.”
Entering the lift, I ignore Sloan as she presses herself up against the opposite corner. The lift is mirrored, so I can see her venom in multiple reflections. I can practically smell the hate radiating off her.
Good.
Patrick steps off first, hand on his pistol, and does a quick sweep of my penthouse, then politely nods to me, hands folded.
“Thank ya Patrick. That’s all for today.”
“Goodnight Boss,” he turns his head slightly but carefully avoids looking right at Sloan. “Goodnight Miss Masters.”
It’s silent in my two-story entryway. My windows are all bullet and soundproofed. Sloan eyes the table in the center of the circular entryway like she wants to seize the vase of flowers there and crack it over my head.
“Come.” I dinna wait for her to move, taking her arm firmly and hauling her along after me like a suitcase with a broken wheel.
“Don’t touch me!” she snarls, and I’m enjoying this moment. I haven’t slept since that first night in the busted-up cockpit, and the early morning hours today were devoted to thinking about all the horrific shite Masters’ new thugs could be doin’ to my girl.
Oh, she’s my girl now.
Feart - Scottish slang for scared
Keep the heid - Scottish slang for calm the hell down