Page 25 of Wild Devil
“Mr. Heywood requests your presence, Miss.”
“Oh, of course. We’ll be out soon!” Her eyes frantically meet mine as she rushes to make it appear as if all this time, we’d been cleaning me up. By the time Catherine finally pulls the door open, my hair is dripping wet, and my dress is soaked.
The guard standing on the other end looks me over before beckoning us both toward the end of the hall with a nod. “He’s waiting for you in the drawing room, Miss.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there after I show Frances to her room?—”
“He wants to see you both,” the guard says. “This way.”
NINE
DAZE
If anyone had told me a few days ago that I would not only be hiding out in a former cartel stronghold but working with the bastards, I would have said they were crazy. The sick son of a bitch might even have deserved a punch to the gut for such a twisted idea.
Well, look at me now.
I’d skip down the street hand-in-hand with the devil if it meant saving Frey’s life. Liar, a part of me whispers. If you truly cared about her… Really cared, you’d pass over the devil and go straight to Silas on your hands and knees. You’d offer the bastard your head on a silver platter if it meant getting her back alive.
After that, you’d ask why he had so many documents pertaining to her family tucked away in a suburban garage. That’s a tricky little riddle, I have yet to solve. Hours later and I still haven’t gone through them all—for a reason that isn’t entirely my fault. When Damien saw the folder the second I returned, he frowned in that mysterious way that signals bad news.
I’d almost prefer to ask Silas outright than dig answers out of Mayhem, though, the bastard would sooner blow my brains out—after he stopped laughing his ass off, that is. Still, the doubt persists at the back of my mind, in between taunting images of her. The beautiful green eyes that widened as I fucked her last. Skin so soft, and as pure as an angel’s. Right before an orgasm, her voice rose in pitch, and I swear it must be the soundtrack those lucky bastards arrive to in real fucking heaven.
Damn.
This is one of the few times in my life where constantly thinking about a woman isn’t a good thing. I’m not used to this. Pining, as Ben would call it, his voice teasing—and rightfully so. My fear of losing her has grown from a minor inconvenience into full-blown paranoia. She consumes my thoughts. Even with Renna…
I knew she was in a bad way, but by the time Sammy came, whatever there had been between us had already died out. We were glorified roommates, tethered together by a screaming infant neither of us was responsible enough to care for. Yes, I felt grief when she died, and it might be shitty of me to admit, but…I felt relief, too. There was no need to worry about her shooting up or nodding off with Sam in the house.
That being said, I missed her. But, when it came to saying goodbye, as much as it fucking sucked, I could let her go.
The possibility of losing Frey isn’t even an option. There’s no alternative to having her back in my arms. No happy ending that doesn’t involve her in it. Being away from her kills me.
Truth is, I would go further than meeting with the cartel if I knew she would be safe. I’d sell my soul for her.
“I don’t like this,” Ben murmurs, hunched over the table, comparing pages from Hale’s journal to those in Silas’ trunk. In the pale glow filtering in from the high windows, he looks like hell, with his dark hair hanging limply down his shoulders and his chin coated in black stubble. “There’s news clippings of the cartel mingled with a fucking last will and testament?—”
“What?” I approach the other end of the table as he shoves one of the pages toward me. My stomach twists into knots as I scan the wording printed in faded ink. It’s a will, alright, documenting the final wishes of one Abagail Winston Heywood.
“She might have been Frey’s mother,” I say, recalling what she told me about her. “Supposedly, she was a drug addict, but Heywood more than likely bumped her off.”
“This could be why,” Ben says, nodding toward the stack of pages still on his side of the table. “Looks like Ms. Abby here was worth millions. I’m talking tens of millions. I can’t tell the full amount because these are copies of just a few pages. Why the hell Silas would have it, I don’t know.”
“What else is there? Maybe he’s threatening to release this to the press? The knowledge that he’s riding high on his ex-wife’s money could erode his financial support?”
“Maybe,” Ben says. At the same time, he frowns and presses his thumb over a particular line. “If he actually did ride high on her money. Judging from this, he didn’t.”
I feel my eyes narrow. Fuck, I’m even more confused. Why would Silas even give a damn, unless…
“I’m guessing that if Heywood didn’t profit from his wife’s death, then her children did.”
“Not quite.” Ben sighs, but when he meets my gaze, he’s frowning. “Hale would have when he turned twenty-five.”
“So, then I’m guessing Frey is next in line.”
And since she’s only twenty-three, she has two years on her father’s radar before she can inherit. Not ideal, but I plan on getting her out of the city well before then. Even so, something about the way Ben is looking at me makes my skin itch.
“What?”