Chapter Twenty
TWENTY
Rocky
“He’s back.” The hushed phrase has traveled from ear to ear, and I don’t need to ask Jake who the hell has caught everyone’s attention like the Queen of England dismounting from a Thoroughbred.
People whisper his nickname, one that was formed after Emilia’s death.
“The Lone Wolfe,” a lady says behind me.
“Is that really him?” her friend asks.
Jake shares a hesitant look with me. He leans in to whisper, “That’s Varrick.”
“I figured.”
“I can’t believe he left Stonehaven,” Jake says in a labored breath like he’s running a 5k. “Twelve thousand!” he shouts over the commotion, and I hope that’s the gavel. The end note.
“Twenty-one,” Varrick Wolfe says, too casually.
People shuffle away from him. His self-assured stance reminds me of every Wall Street broker I’ve ever met. His shit doesn’t stink. He could buy half the street. Nothing here fazes him.
He’s next to a marble planter filled with reddish-orange poppies, and a gaping path opens from him all the way to Jake, who’s beside me and the lamppost.
Everyone has a better view of this face-off.
Unlike Weston, Varrick has trained his focus solely on Phoebe.
My instincts buzz, and my blood boils. I do my best not to tense while I scan the length of him.
He’s white. Likely between forty-five and forty-eight. Fit, as if he wakes obsessively at five a.m. for a treadmill sprint and barbell presses. Clean-shaven. He’s well groomed with wavy, dark brown hair and moisturized, fair skin. Everything about him screams rich .
The fitted blue sports coat is designer. The matching slacks look tailor-made. But his wealth isn’t just in his custom wardrobe or the Patek Philippe watch on his wrist—one that reminds me of my father.
It’s the superiority he exudes—the calm arrogance as the commotion never disturbs his desires—and it has the town collectively holding their breath.
He is as magnanimous as they fucking envisioned him to be.
“Twenty-two!” Jake calls out.
“Twenty-three,” he states. He’s closer to the country-club tent, and in the shade, I see Claudia. I see Stella Fitzpatrick and a handful of other ladies huddled and sipping proseccos with newfound interest.
“Twenty-four,” Jake counters.
“Twenty-five.”
“You do know you’re bidding on my girlfriend?!” Jake shouts with bubbling ire across the square. He’s trying to protect Phoebe.
Varrick pretends not to hear.
I swear he’s fucking smiling.
My muscles are on fire as I root myself in place. I’ve stuffed my white-knuckled fists in my leather jacket.
Jake twists to me, and fear is ejecting from his gaze. He only shows me. Jake isn’t half bad at being secretive, and if he weren’t so in touch with his morals, he’d make a great lifelong con artist.
I’ll give him that.
Fear—he feels it because it’s not just the Konings who hold power in Victoria. It’s the Wolfes, and up until this moment, I doubt there was any person that could rival a Koning boy.
I slip him back a hardened look. We’re not letting this prick win Phoebe.
She looks disturbed on the steps of town hall. She’s avoiding Varrick’s intense eye contact and whispering to Hailey beside her.
“Is there another bid?” Katherine asks, eagle-eyeing her godson, Jake, for a response. She’s encouraging him to not give up, despite not being fond of Phoebe herself. Katherine genuinely loves him, maybe more than his own mother does.
“Twenty-six!” Jake shouts.
“Twenty-seven thousand,” Varrick counters. The low hum of whispers roars louder.
Leaning into Jake, I whisper, “Did you tick this guy off?” It feels personal somehow. Like a vendetta.
“I’ve never spoken to him in my life,” Jake says with a cautious side-eye. “Twenty-eight!”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Thirty!” Jake calls out, and as Varrick continues to stare down Phoebe, more unease crawls beneath my skin.
“Thirty-five thousand.” Varrick hikes up the price. It’s higher than anticipated, and Jake’s funds are tied up to the point where he couldn’t buy his sister’s horse.
Jake tries not to act flummoxed or panicked. He’s just vexed. “Thirty-six!”
“Forty-one thousand.” Varrick surges the bid like it’s nothing, and the volume in the square amplifies. I can’t even hear myself think. Words muffle together, and Varrick slowly begins to smile again.
My eyes sear inside out. I can’t quit glaring. My mind is reeling at theories behind his motives. This forty-something arrogant prick thinks he can take a girl half his age from a Koning. As a power move—a Wolfe showing up to put the Konings in their place. Phoebe is a pawn in a rich man’s game—and I fucking hate it . I can’t stand it, and yet, I’ve entered the arena far too many times to count.
Or he might just think she’s the most attractive Clue Girl. He wants to fuck her.
I don’t care which one is worse. It’s all emotional. Unhelpful. Pain.
Phoebe is cringing. She threads her arms hotly over her chest.
“Quiet down! Quiet down!” Katherine calls out into the microphone.
Over the noise, I pull Jake closer to whisper, “Stop bidding on her.”
“What?” His blue eyes narrow back at me. “No.”
“He’s doing this for a reason,” I say roughly under my breath. “We need to figure out why.”
“Grey—”
“We’re a team,” I remind him just as quietly. Flashes of my brother, my sister, Nova, Oliver, Phoebe race through my head at the word team . I can’t believe I’d also include Jake in it, but we are so permanently, doggedly on the same side. I think we’d die here together before stepping even a hundred feet closer to the warring position.
Katherine speaks into the mic. “Do I hear forty-two thousand?” She gives Jake ample time to respond.
All eyes are on the third-born heir.
My pulse breaks every speed limit, and I wait for Jake to relent. He slips me a look that says, I’m with you. But also, This better work.
He trusts me. Scarily enough, I’ve been slowly learning to trust him, too.
“Going once,” Katherine says, worry straining her voice.
Then I step in front of Jake. “Forty-two thousand,” I call out.
There’s no thunder of noise. No buzzing chatter. Silence falls on the square in certified shock. It’s been three months.
Three whole months where I’ve never protested or fought for Phoebe. I’ve let her be with Jake as if I’m the bitter ex-husband with an L on his forehead.
Until today.
When I bid on her.
Heads swing to Varrick. And for the first time, he pries his fixed attention off Phebs. And he sets these glimmering, strange, bluish eyes on me. They’re boring. Like a drill into the eye sockets. It’s uncomfortable, and I know why Phoebe would avoid his face.
I also know I’ve used this look on others before. To intimidate them.
I say nothing. I just meet his challenge head-on. Never breaking our gaze. He thinks he’s a jackhammer? I’m an entire fucking wrecking ball.
His lips hike up.
Yeah.
He likes this. Competing. Is he just bored then? Is this what gets him off? He’s tired of holing up in his mansion on a lonesome island, so he came out for some afternoon entertainment.
I can’t see the truth, but I’m accustomed to living among lies. Varrick Wolfe doesn’t scare me.
He sees, and his smile seems to brighten.
As Katherine says, “Do I hear forty-three thousand?” Varrick is already casually strolling out of the masses and down the street. As if The Hunt means next to nothing to him.
“Going once,” Katherine says. He’s gone, but my ribs have caged my lungs. “Going twice.” Noise suddenly picks up around me. Katherine leans into the microphone, disappointment etched in her voice. “Phoebe Smith and her clues. Sold to Grey Thornhall.”