Two Justice #3
From the other side of Thorn, Justice gives me a look. A behave look. The one that says I’m a project, a file he’s keeping open, a mess he’s determined to clean up. Since when did I become Justice Beathach’s hobby?
I glare back.
My stepmother moves closer. At around six feet tall, she looks elegant and lovely in a silver-toned ball gown, her thick brown hair up and her deadly blue eyes perfectly accentuated.
The hair color is fresh with new highlights.
Her longtime boyfriend, Horace Whimple, is at her side.
She lowers her chin, her gaze hard on me. “Hello, Ella.”
“Hey, bitch,” I whisper.
Stacia chuckles from my other side, and I jump.
I didn’t see my stepsister arrive. I turn to see her in a pretty pink gown with a rather cheap-looking silver sparkle purse, amusement in her dark eyes.
Corinda is next to her, a tall and stunning blonde, and she looks over my head at Justice. “He’s hot. Not your type, Ella.”
“I know.” I don’t want Justice. “But he likes them smart, Corinda. Not your type, either.”
Her blue eyes flare.
Yeah, I can hit back.
I try to appear bored and shift my attention to the speeches.
Rosalie steps up first to toast Alana, and the speech is beautiful.
Poised, elegant, sharp. Exactly what I’d expect from a lawyer who can out-argue a senator and seduce a judge in one breath.
Alana’s eyes glisten halfway through. Mine might have, too, if I wasn’t still coming down from the contact high of dancing with a man who can snap my neck with one arm and ruin my life with the other.
Then it’s Justice’s turn. He’s speaking for Thorn, and I’m not prepared. He’s quiet. Honest. Nothing flashy. No intimidation tactics. Just simple, brutal truth. A brother who loves fiercely. A man who protects what’s his.
Proving once again exactly why he’s dangerous.
Because underneath all that cold precision is something raw and deadly.
I shake myself out of the fear and concentrate. Watching Justice and Thorn, I wish I had a sister. But I’ve got Alana and Rosalie. We’re just as tight. Maybe tighter. Blood’s not the only thing that binds.
Justice turns to clap Thorn on the back.
That’s my window.
I move fast to slide behind Alana, weave through a tangle of well-dressed guests, make it to the bathrooms, and slip out the back exit. One quick turn and I’m in the tent containing the control room.
Two guys are sitting in front of a bank of screens, surrounded by wires and gear like they’re backstage at a high-budget concert. Both wear black uniforms and have the nervous twitch of those taken away from the latest Call of Duty game.
“Hey,” I say breezily. “Alana wants this played.” I type in a couple of commands. Hopefully we’re connected to the servers at the main house, which should be connected to the ones at Aquarius Social, their social media company.
One of the men starts to object, “Wait, what—?”
“The bride wants this,” I interrupt, dropping sharpness into my voice. “She owns this place.”
He blinks, looking confused. “Oh. Yeah.”
“It’ll just be a second.” I type fast. Command line open. Fingers flying. Music begins to play with a decoy track I loaded in advance. The guys relax.
Idiots.
While they nod along to the tune, I slip the payload into the system, opening a clean back door into the Beaumont mainframe. Just a crack, just enough. I don’t need much.
“Thanks,” I chirp, turning and breezing outside the tent before they can question a thing.
Cool air hits me like a reward. My chest swells. That was almost too easy. I pivot to head back toward the pavilion—
And there he is.
Justice.
Leaning against the building like the embodiment of fury itself, glare locked on me like a missile. I freeze. Panic. Pure, stupid panic. Then I bolt.
I turn, heels slamming against stone, dress flaring out. I make it four steps before, damn it, I trip. Hitting the ground, being well acquainted with gravity, I roll and come back up with one shoe and zero dignity, and keep running, hitching along with one high heel.
He’s behind me. I hear him. Heavy, fast, relentless. But this isn’t his playground. It’s mine.
I know this estate. I’ve been to Alana’s father’s place too many times to count. I dart left through a patch of decorative brush, ducking onto a hidden trail only a handful of people know about. His footsteps falter behind me. He’s lost.
Two more sharp cuts, and I’m clear. Out front. I sprint toward the nearest parked car, which is some kind of sleek black town car, with its engine humming and the driver slouched over. I yank open the back door and launch myself inside. “Hi! I’m a bridesmaid. You have to go. Now.”
The driver blinks once. Shrugs. Starts driving.
Bless him.
I glance out the back window and see Justice reach the Italian tile drive just seconds too late.
He stops.
His suit’s dusted with dirt, shirt slightly open at the collar, and fury is written across every inch of his face. Lightning cracks in the distance, of course it does, and for one horrifying second, the flash paints him in stark silhouette.
Panic takes me. I have to get to a safe house.
He doesn’t look like a man anymore.
He looks like retribution.