Chapter 2
Ethan
One Year Later
“I’m going to fucking kill him,” Aidan snarls, taking a step forward in the overheated club.
I slap my hand to his chest. “No, you won’t. If you go over there and rip his fucking hands off in front of her, you will scare her, and then this entire operation is compromised. We’ve come too far, for too long to let your base instincts ruin it.”
“So what? You’re just going to let him get away with that?”
“No.” I smile and move forward. “But I’m going to do it my way.”
Cutting through the crowd, I adjust the cuffs on my black shirt as I move towards her at the bar.
She is tipsy. Maybe not fully drunk, but getting there.
Her long, blonde hair sways around her back as the guy who bought her a drink now thinks that gives him carte blanche to her body.
She stumbles back in heels too high to be respectable.
Her dress barely covers her arse, and her tits are fighting to get free from the low-cut neckline.
She is acting out.
That much is painfully obvious, but it’s better than her sitting holed up in her house on this day while she tries not to fall apart.
Stepping in between Annabelle and the guy, I grip his wrist and twist it behind his back.
He grunts. “Get off me, you fucker.”
“Hmm,” I murmur in his ear over the thump of the music. “Bit different when it’s the other way around, isn’t it? Consent suddenly becomes important.” I twist his arm higher and cast a glance at Annabelle.
She is staring, wide-eyed, her eyes glassy but clear enough to know what is happening.
Removing a ten-pound note from my pocket, I slap it into the guy’s hand and close my hand around his fist. “That should cover the cost of the drink. Now fuck off before I decide to get mean.” I let him go with a rough shove.
He glares at me and moves on, knowing he will get his face smashed in if he tests me.
With a slow smile, I turn to Annabelle.
She swallows and moves forward. “I guess you want payment now.”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “Buying you a drink doesn’t mean he gets to paw at you.”
“How do you know he bought me a drink?”
“I’ve been watching you.”
She swallows again and catches her bottom lip between her teeth. My dick stiffens. She moves closer, placing her hands on my chest. “What’s your name, hero?”
“Ethan. Ethan Deveaux. And you are?”
“Annabelle.” She presses herself closer.
I stare down into her blue eyes and slowly reach out to cup the back of her neck. “Annabelle,” I murmur. With every ounce of willpower, I let her go and step back. She stumbles forward slightly, catching herself with her hand on my chest again. “How do I thank you, Ethan?”
“You don’t,” I state.
She smiles. It’s sexy as fuck. She runs her hands down my chest and then brushes her fingers over my cock. “Mm,” she murmurs, licking her lips.
I grip her wrist. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” she taunts, squeezing me.
“Annabelle. You don’t want this.”
“Don’t tell me what I want.” She pouts, and I want to bite her bottom lip until she bleeds.
“You’re drunk.”
“Mildly tipsy,” she corrects me. “I know what I want.”
“Yeah? And what is that?”
She looks up at me with those eyes filled with lust. Drunk lust. “To thank you properly.”
“You don’t need to.”
“I want to.”
“And how do you plan to do that?” My hand comes up again to cup the back of her neck. This time, I grip her tightly, pulling her closer until she is flush against me.
“Take me home, and I’ll show you.”
Inhaling deeply, I take in the scent of her perfume, something light and floral. Moving my hand up to the back of her head, I tilt it, so I can whisper in her ear, “Are you sure you want to do that, Tinkerbell?”
“Annabelle,” she says, eyes narrowed. “And yes.”
My lips curve up. Her gaze drops. I lose my head and pull her closer, crushing her lips with mine.
She opens up instantly, tasting of vodka and tonic. I devour her mouth for a few seconds before I pull back and take her hand.
I don’t say anything else as I move, leading her through the club. The crowd parts for me without even knowing why. It’s like they sense whose blood runs through my veins, and it scares them. It should.
I catch Aidan in the corner of my eye and shake my head slightly to stop him from moving forward. He knows we can’t overwhelm her. Not now. Not yet.
We keep going until we push out of the entrance into the hot, humid night.
Annabelle stumbles slightly, and I tighten my grip on her, leading her to my car. I unlock the black Porsche 911 and open the passenger door. “Get in.”
She hesitates for a fraction of a second before she slides in.
“Address?” I ask, even though I’m intimately familiar with where she lives.
“Turn left at the lights,” she says, and places her hand on my thigh.
I remove it.
She goes quiet. I can feel her watching me. Feel her trying to work me out. Most people fail because they come at it from the wrong direction. They think men like me are built on impulse. Rage. Appetite.
I am built on control.
Aidan—the middle triplet—is more like our father. Jack Deveaux has impulse issues. The youngest, Callan, is a law unto himself.
“Right here,” she murmurs, sitting back, the alcohol taking effect on her now. It’s late, she is off her feet and on her way home. “Straight at the roundabout.”
I follow her instructions, but I’m on autopilot.
Her hand lands on my thigh again. This time I don’t move it. She trails her fingers higher until they’re over my dick, and I stifle the urge to groan out loud.
“You like playing dangerous games, Annabelle.”
“You only live once, right?” she says. The bitterness is masked by her need to sound carefree.
Her words hit somewhere old and vicious inside me.
People say that line when they want to pretend nothing matters. When pain is so welded into them, they turn it into a joke and dare the world to challenge it.
“Right.”
“Here,” she says, fishing in her tiny bag that is crossed over her body. I didn’t even notice it.
I pull up outside her cottage and cut the engine. It’s nearly midnight. The neighbours’ curtains will be twitching if I leave it idling longer than necessary.
Annabelle opens her car door and gets out unsteadily. I follow, closing the door quietly and waiting for her to do the same. I lock it and catch her hand as she brushes past me to walk up the small garden path. I wait patiently as she opens the door and leads me inside.
I step in and shut the door behind us, locking it.
Her eyes dart nervously to the lock, but I smile, pulling her closer. “Cute house.”
“Thanks,” she mumbles and turns to head upstairs, pulling her shoes off as she goes up.
I follow, taking the stairs slowly, giving her time to get to her bedroom, so I can follow her and then shut out the world.
At the top landing, I pause outside her room and watch her push the door open with a careless shove of her hip.
The bedroom is small, neat, as if someone were forcing order onto a life that keeps slipping through their fingers.
A lamp on the bedside table. A book facedown beside it.
Curtains drawn. A cardigan is tossed over a chair.
Nothing flashy. Nothing indulgent. Just Annabelle stamped into every quiet corner.
She turns to me, one hand on the door, the other at the zip at the side of her dress, fumbling with it.
I step over the threshold and shut the door behind me.
Her eyes drop to the handle. To the closed door. Back to me.
I move closer and catch her hand before she mangles the zip entirely. “Stand still.”
She does. Barely.
I lower the fastening slowly, my knuckles brushing her warm skin. Her hands are shaking. She sees me notice, and she clenches her fists for a moment before sliding the dress over her hot little body that I’ve only ever dreamed about before now.