CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE LIGHT IN this room is glaring.
Or maybe it just feels that way after being holed up in the trunk of a car for hours.
Which is how they transported me here, wherever this place is.
My best guess is somewhere up in the mountains because the air is chilly and feels different when I breathe it in.
Or maybe I’m just really, really afraid right now.
The room I’m in is small and windowless.
Extremely cold with beige walls and a concrete floor.
This reminds me of an interrogation room you’d see on TV and the one I was in back when I was looking for my best friend.
God, that feels like ages ago, even though it’s only been a couple of months.
I’m sitting in a chair—of course, tied up—and there’s a steel table in front of me.
I twist my hands and immediately hiss when the rope cuts into my skin.
Tears prickle my eyes, not because of the pain, but because it reminds me of him.
Of his ropes, his knots. How when he seemed so rough, he was still so gentle with me.
How every time he’d knot a rope around my hands, his fingers would linger on my skin.
His thumb would rub over my pulse as if he wanted to see how he affected me.
His fingers would thread with mine as if tying me with ropes wasn’t enough; he also wanted to hold my hands, capture them in his to make sure I never escaped. Make sure I stayed with him. Forever.
I slowly shake my head, trying to banish the thought. That is not what that was and I don’t have time to think about those things anymore. Not right now. Just then the door opens and I’m almost thankful for the interruption to my thoughts.
Almost.
Because in comes my father. Or rather, he’s wheeled in, complete with his breathing equipment and nose tubes, his blue eyes on me.
For a few seconds, I only watch him get closer.
My father’s been in a wheelchair for eight years now, ever since Arsen attacked him and almost choked him to death.
You’d think his body would get frail, his shoulders would hunch and his legs that he never uses anymore would grow thin and weak.
But my father looks just as formidable as he was back when he was completely healthy and able to walk.
I don’t know why. Maybe because he’s been such an intimidating figure in my life that no matter what happens to him, he’ll always be that in my eyes.
Or maybe he really is that scary. Whatever it is, his silver hair looks just as polished as ever, his tie just as gleaming.
His bespoke suit fits him well and underneath all of that, his shoulders are just as firm and strong as they were when he pushed my mother off a horse all those years ago.
His face may look older than when I saw him last summer at the charity function he insisted I attend.
But even marked with more lines and wrinkles and a couple of age spots here and there, he appears handsome and well groomed.
“You,” I say, my hands fisted behind my back.
Of course it’s him. Who else would it be?
He’s been the only monster in my life. I just don’t understand why.
Why would he want me dead? And why kidnap Radisson’s sister?
Why pick Radisson to do his dirty work when I know he has various men at his disposal?
So that’s what I ask him when he finally stops at the table, my voice low and almost calm-sounding, “Why?”
“For the money.”
The words don’t come from my father but from the man who wheeled him in.
I’ve been so busy staring at my father, the man who brought me into this world and now wants to kill me, that I didn’t pay any attention to the one who walked into the room.
He’s got dark eyes; that’s the first thing.
The kind that seem truly dark, not just of color but also of spirit.
He wears a matching dark suit with a red tie and looks to be in his fifties.
His skin is tan, the kind you get from an expensive salon, and his hair is surfer blond with hints of silver.
I remember every single one of the men my father put me in contact with, and this man isn’t one of them.
When he smiles at me, his teeth gleam white and sharp and I press my back into the chair.
“Who are you?” I ask.
He keeps smiling and takes a seat at the table. “I’m a colleague of your father’s.”
“What kind of colleague?”
“The kind that do business together.”
I stare at him for a few seconds, my chest heaving. Then, “Why are you speaking for my father?” I glance over at my dad, who sits in his chair, his face blank and his eyes still locked on me.
“Because he can’t talk,” the strange man reminds me. “He lost his ability to speak eight years ago.”
I frown as my heart starts racing in my chest, not that it wasn’t already, but still.
Something is so very strange about all this.
Twisting my hands in the bonds even though I know I won’t get free, I snap, trying to seem brave, “I know that. I was there. Or rather, I was at camp. I know my father can’t talk.
But he uses something to help him communicate. What happened to that?”
When Arsen tried to murder my father, he strangled him so badly that his voice box got screwed up.
Since then, he’s had to use a special device to speak.
Now that I think about it, I’ve never really appreciated his lack of voice.
And how fucking poetic it is that he almost took away Radisson’s ability to talk and ended up with tubes attached to his throat too.
Good. Fuck him and fuck this fucking California surfer guy.
Who says next, “It’s better if I talk.”
“Fine,” I tell him. “Let’s talk. Where’s Lynnie?”
He throws me a small smile, his eyes taking in my features. “She’s safe.”
“Well, you have me now,” I say. “Let her go.”
He looks at me for a few seconds. Then, “Actually, you’re right. We don’t really need her for plan B. We could let her go.”
My heart jumps in my chest and I lean forward. “So then—”
“But,” he interrupts me. “We’ll wait. It’s just always better to hold grudges than to let them go.”
I clench my teeth. “Who the fuck are you?”
He settles back in his seat. “I told you. I’m your father’s colleague. And together, we’re in the business of acquiring more land.”
My heart sinks because of course, it’s about the one thing that it’s always been about. “Land.”
“You know, I’m from California. I came to Montana only a year ago,” he tells me conversationally.
“And the reason I came was because Montana comes highly recommended. Great land, great prices. It’s a buyer’s market out here and I’m in real estate, so it only makes sense that I buy something here.
But the piece of land I had my eye on is apparently not for sale. ”
“Poor you,” I murmur, venom dripping from my words.
But he simply keeps going in the same tone, “I’m not someone who takes no for an answer so I kept trying.
I kept raising my price. I kept trying to make the deal look more enticing.
You offer ten million dollars to anyone else, let’s say, down in Texas maybe, and they roll right over.
But apparently cowboys of Montana are a different breed. ”
“Nice story, but—”
“And then I met your father.”
My heart sinks further because that’s never a good thing.
Not that it ever was, but there has to be a reason why he’s telling me all this.
A reason that I know is going to be worse than all the other hits.
I study him for a second then before glancing over to my dad.
Who’s got the same expression on his face, blank with his eyes glued to me.
Coming back to the California surfer man who actually is from California, I say, “If you think my dad is going to help you in any way, you’re sorely mistaken.
My father’s never helped anyone but himself.
So you might as well go back to whatever hole in California you crawled out of.
Do you understand? You’re never getting that land. Whatever the hell piece of land it is.”
“That’s what I thought too,” he says, completely calm. “But as I said, I met your father and we struck up a deal. Apparently, the land I’m interested in is also of interest to him. Has been for decades. So I told him if he helps me get the land I want, I’ll give him a percentage of it.”
My stomach bottoms out.
No. No, no, no. It can’t be. It… I know. I know what he’s talking about. There’s only one piece of land my father is interested in, has been for decades, and he’ll do anything to possess it. Including befriending this psychopath from California. Rawhide.
“I see you finally understand,” the man murmurs.
“The Graysons—”
“Are not very friendly,” he says, cutting me off, his eyes changing, becoming harsher.
“Which is the opposite of what you hear about people in small towns. You go to L.A. and someone’s rude, you think that’s the nature of things.
But you come to Black Rock, Montana, a town that’s a dot on the map, and someone doesn’t want to see you, no matter how many phone calls and emails you send, that’s strange.
There’s something wrong with the Graysons, isn’t there?
Something does not fit. They’re too secretive, too tightly bonded.
Even the men who work for them. And believe me, I tried.
I tried to get them to talk, but no one did. ”
That’s because many of the men who work for the Graysons are bound to them for life.
They’re reformed criminals with their own set of codes, and no matter what, they’ll never talk.
And the man who reforms them, the man who forces them to do penance, is going to bring down his fucking wrath, along with the wrath of the entire Grayson clan, on this California clown when he finds out. That’s my only thought in the moment.