Unveiled(69)

“Scotch. Straight,” Miller mutters. “The best you have. And make it a double.”

“Chivas Regal Royal Salute, fifty years old. It’s the very best, sir.” He indicates a bottle on a glass shelf behind the bar, and Miller grunts his acceptance, but he doesn’t take a stool next to me, choosing to remain standing by my side, scanning the bar and nodding to a few inquisitive faces. The best they have. No one pays for drinks at the Society. The obscene membership fees cover it. And Miller will undoubtedly know this. He’s making a private point. He remembers William messing with his perfectly neat drinks cabinet and helping himself to a drink. He’s on a silly revenge fit. Is this rubbing along just fine?

A glass of white wine is placed before me, and I immediately swipe it up, taking a long, healthy glug as a huge frame appears behind the bar from nowhere. Glancing to my right with my glass suspended in midair before me, I take in the ominous presence of the giant man. Blue eyes, so pale they resemble clear glass, cut through the relaxed atmosphere like a machete, and his shoulder-length black hair is slicked back into a tight ponytail. Everyone is aware of him, including Miller, whose hackles seem to have risen and are currently stabbing at my back. I remember him—I could never forget—but his name is stuck on my tongue. He’s William’s first in command. He’s well turned out, but his tailored suit does nothing to dilute the evil vibes emanating from every pore.

I sit back on my stool and take a nervous sip of my wine, trying to ignore his presence. Impossible. I can feel those mirror-ball eyes slicing into my flesh. “Olivia,” he all but growls, making me take in a steadying breath of air, and Miller bristles into the realms of taking leave of his senses. He’s now pushed up against my back and virtually vibrating on me.

I can’t speak. I can only just swallow, sending more wine down my throat fast.

“Carl,” Miller utters quietly, instantly reminding me of his name. Carl Keating. One of the scariest men I’ve ever met. He’s not changed one bit—not aged… not lost his frightening aura.

“We weren’t expecting you,” Carl says, taking the empty tumbler from the barman and flicking his head in command, sending him away without the need to verbalize his order.

“Surprise visit.” Miller’s retort is full of arrogance.

Carl places the glass on the marble counter of the bar before he turns and takes down a black bottle from the shelf that’s embellished with an intricate gold plate. “The good stuff.” He raises his black eyebrows as he holds the bottle up and pulls the gold stopper from the top. I shift uncomfortably on my stool and risk a peek over my shoulder to Miller, dreading what I’ll find. His stoic expression and heated blue eyes, boring right into Carl, do nothing to lessen my unease.

“Only the best,” Miller speaks clearly, never letting his focus waver.

I blink slowly on a quiet hitch of breath, my shaky hands taking my glass back to my lips. I’ve been in some painful situations of late, and this is right up there with the best of them.

“Nothing but the best for the Special One, yes?” Carl smiles cunningly to himself as he pours a few fingers.

I cough over my wine, slamming down the glass before I drop it. He’s playing a dangerous game, and he knows it. Miller’s chest heaving, buzzing, burning against my back tells me he could explode at any moment.

Carl passes the glass over and holds it in midair, rather than placing it on the bar for Miller to take, then wiggles it slightly… teasingly. I wince on a little jump when Miller’s hand flies out and viciously swipes it from his clasp, making the mean beast grin evilly. He’s getting a sick thrill from poking Miller and it’s beginning to get under my skin. Miller drains the alcohol in one smooth gulp before he smashes the glass down and licks his lips slowly, a slight curl developing at the side of his mouth. His eyes remain locked on Carl the whole time. The animosity batting between these two men is making me dizzy.

“Mr. Anderson wants you in his office. He’ll join you shortly.”

My neck is taken before Carl’s words fully sink in, and I’m on my feet and being led away from the bar before I can finish the rest of my much-needed wine. The anger pouring from Miller is potent. I’m nervous enough just from being here. All these bad feelings aren’t assisting. The pounding of Miller’s expensive shoes on the polished floor is ricocheting around my head, the walls closing in around me as the corridor swallows us up.

And then I see the door—the one I staggered toward the last time I saw it. The intricate door handle seems to swell before my eyes, enticing me in, showing me the way, and the wall lights seem to dull the farther we progress. The light buzzing of the posh club is fading into a muffled fuzz of quiet sound behind me, my poor mind being hijacked by relentless, painful memories.