Page 68 of Ruthless Salvation

“Yeah, from his temple to his cheek. And eyes so pale blue they could have been carved from ice. He was terrifying.” A shiver ran through her at the recollection.

Bile burned the back of my throat.

It was Damyon. Not only had he been closer than I’d realized, he was already putting my friends at risk, whether he knew it or not.

I fought back the intense need to vomit. I had to learn everything I could from her. “Why would he want you dead?”

“We thought he did, but it turned out we were wrong. A mix-up over a sale of guns or something. It was complicated.” Her eyes cut briefly to Keir, and I got the sense she wasn’t sure how much she should tell. “Anyway, I didn’t mean to worry you. You’ve been through enough.”

I forced a thin smile, hoping to reassure her. We talked for another half an hour about nothing of consequence until Keir insisted they leave and allow me to rest. I was glad, but not for the reasons they might think. I needed to process what I’d learned.

Damyon knew about the Byrne family. It was only a matter of time before he put the pieces together.

* * *

“What wereyou and Keir talking about so quietly?” I asked once we were alone and making ourselves sandwiches for lunch.

“Work,” he offered vaguely.

“The club?” I tried to pull more from him, knowing chances were good the work he was discussing was likely me.

“Yeah.” His clipped answers made it clear that I wasn’t going to get anywhere, so I decided to change tactics.

“Rowan was telling me about how she met Keir. Said some crazy Russian was after her?” She’d said more than that, but that was the only part I was interested in.

“Don’t know why she’d tell you about that shit,” he said with a hint of anger. “Last thing you need is more worries. Just ignore her. Everything worked out fine.”

Great. Another brick wall. Third time’s the charm.

“Okay then, tell me about Jolly. He said you two met at a juvenile detention center.”

He spread mustard on a piece of bread, his blue eyes as calculating and cryptic as ever. “We did.”

“What were you in for?”

His eyes darkened. I’d hit on a sensitive subject, but I wasn’t sure why.

“Possession,” he finally admitted.

“That where you started fighting?” I hated that he put himself in the ring and couldn’t understand why he did it.

“I started training as soon as I got out.”

“That’s been a while. Long time to keep at it.” He had power and money, so why did he keep getting in the ring? What did he get from fighting that kept him at it?

“Your point?”

I wanted to ask my questions to understand, but judging by his clipped responses, I decided not to push. “You know why he goes by Jolly? Is it like calling a huge man tiny? Because he sure isn’t very jolly at this point in his life.”

With one simple shift in direction, the tension in his features instantly softened. “We called him Jolly because he was the spitting image of Santa.”

Surprise drew my brows together. “Santa?”

“Imagine him a hundred pounds heavier with a full white beard.”

My jaw dropped. “You’re kidding.”

“You ever know me to kid?”