“What did you have to do with Brent's death?” I ask bluntly, certain that I'm about to lose my mental faculties to Royal's stupid British charm. He pauses a moment, his stubbled jaw working as he glances to the side and thinks about how to say this.
That scares the crap out of me.
“I didn't kill him,” Royal tells me, his voice ringing with truth. But then his dark eyes flick back to mine and I feel my breath catch. “But I was going to.”
“Why?” I whisper, pushing back against the glass as he leans into me, the hot heat from his body melting me into a useless puddle. “I already told you—”
Royal cuts me off by putting one of this big tattooed hands over my mouth. His dark eyes narrow on me as he stands up and pulls his body back a little.
“Brent was working with Mile Wide,” he tells me. “The club that kidnapped you. And Lyric,” he lets go of my mouth and I suck in a big breath, “this has nothing to do with you.” His voice is firm and dark, a warning. You calling in Brent … don't ever mention that to anyone ever again. You hear me? “He was shaking me down, shaking the club down. But we didn't kill him. Somebody else beat us to it.”
I run my fingers over my hair as I try to breathe, putting a hand on my hip and staring at Royal's dark boots against the ugly blue carpet.
“My brother—” I start, but he's already shaking his head.
“No. Enough here. If you want to talk, it's got to be somewhere a little more …” A dark assessing look slides over me and I bite my lip. “Private.”
“There aren't any security cameras upstairs,” I tell him and then get a chill. Maybe I shouldn't have said that? Royal smirks at me, but he doesn't try to touch me again. He just stands there looking beautiful and smug and full of himself, his tattooed hands tucked into his front pockets.
“I'll remember that for later,” he tells me, gesturing with his chin towards the stairs. “Now, let's get the hell out of here. You look bloody knackered.”
Royal gives me a look that says he knows exactly why I'm so tired—I didn't get any fucking sleep last night. If he thinks that's happening again tonight, he's dead wrong.
“Now, Pint-Size, for the important question: my place or yours?”
“I'm here strictly on business tonight,” I tell Royal as he slides off his helmet and then leans his forearms on the handlebars of his bike. Jesus. We spend several minutes just staring at one another, the ocean breeze teasing the raven dark strands of his hair while it tousles it and threatens to tear mine right out of the tight, uncomfortable bun it's been swept back in.
I pause for a moment and then reach up, yanking the clip out and letting brunette waves tumble around my shoulders.
Royal grins at me.
“Doesn't that feel better?” he asks as he stands up and tucks his helmet under his arm, moving up next to me and then glancing over my shoulder, out towards the dark angry sounds of the sea. Royal's shoulders are tense as he scans the horizon and narrows his eyes dangerously. I would not want to be on the receiving end of that look.
You're dating a guy who leveled a gun through a broken car door window and shot several men dead. Dead. This guys kills people.
My heart starts racing as Royal turns his attention back to me, his square jaw tight, the muscles in his neck stiff as he runs his tongue over his lower lip.
“We should get inside,” he tells me, and I don't bother to argue. Not only is it cold enough out here to give me goose bumps, but I'm also aware that things aren't quite right. Something happened on Saturday, something big. This isn't my world, and I don't understand it, but somehow I'm wrapped up in it now. Wrapped up in Royal.
Please don't let this be a mistake, I think as I follow him up the steps and inside his stupidly gorgeous house. I pause as he shuts and locks the door behind us, glancing around for Alloy and Lake.
“Where are the dogs?” I ask as he breezes past me and into the kitchen, pulling several items out of the fridge and tossing them on the counter. If he starts cooking for me again … I'm screwed. I cross my arms over my chest and follow him.
Pasta.
Royal McBride is making fucking pasta.
“Shit,” I breathe, closing my eyes for a moment and then reopening them to find him staring at me. Royal doesn't look particularly happy, a frown teasing the corners of his mouth.
“I didn't feel safe leaving them here alone today,” he says, an edge to his voice that scares the crap out of me. I watch as he sets a pot of water on the stove and turns it on. Seeing a big dude in a leather vest moving around the kitchen like he knows what he's doing … priceless. “Just like I don't like leaving you,” he adds with a strange note to his voice, like he's about to switch the subject to something that'll piss me off.