Page 97 of Merciless Heir
“The tiara wasn’t on auction in Ohio. You think it’s going to be here. Which, if it’s not stolen, means Jenson’s selling it.”
“We don’t know that. I’m going to find out. I want to see who is buying.”
“I didn’t hear any conversation about the tiara,” I say. “Just this part of town.”
Her fingers curl about my arm and it’s like she’s just reached in me and curled them around something deep in my chest. “I know the code words. This is a different sale. As I told you, the other was both legal and illegal. This is all illegal. As in stolen goods. And you need to stay here.”
“No.”
“This isn’t your world.”
I look at her hand and then her. And something in me shifts. I place my hand on hers. “It’s not yours, either, Sadie.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She tries to pull her hand free, but I don’t let her. Her skin is soft and warm and I might not trust her in some ways, but I do in others. And for everything she might or might not have done, this sordid thing isn’t her world.
Not now.
And maybe not ever.
At least not in the way she’s thinking.
“Sadie, you aren’t part of the dregs.”
“But that’s exactly what I am.” She swallows. “Don’t romanticize what I’ve done and who I am because we fucked.”
“I’m not. I see you.”
“You see what you want to see.”
“Yeah, you.”
“I know these people. They might have money, but they’re from my world. They created it. I just manipulated it.”
Something in me hurts because she’s speaking soft and there’s a wall and behind that wall is pain and the vulnerability her Athena spoke about. Sadie doesn’t like people getting close and she shoves. Hard.
But I’m more stubborn than she’s ever even begun to assume. And I know this world suits her because they all keep to themselves. They don’t want to get in to her center. They want to use and she takes that and turns it.
And if Sadie Hess wanted to rip these people down to owning only used garbage bags, I’ve a feeling they all deserve it.
These are the type who build fortunes on misery.
“You’re not going in alone.”
“Kingston.”
I squeeze her fingers. “No. Let’s use me. Push up that price. If someone has it, let’s find out.”
And before she can say a word, I’m out of the car.
We go down through a door at the back of the bar. The stone steps and rough walls leading to the basement level are dank and cold. An earthy, musty scent coils around us as I slip my fingers through hers.
Her gaze touches mine and I give her a cool smile. Voices rise and grow louder as we approach a door with a burly guy.
“Raven,” she says.
He gives the smallest nod to the door next to him and we go through, into a different world.
It’s not pretty. But it’s painted black and has low lights with black sofas like it was some kind of speakeasy club.