Page 108 of One Shattered Crown
Wesley lifts his brows. “I don’t touch people unless they want it.”
“Good. Because she doesn’t.” Justice’s hand lands on me with a quick pat, sharp enough on my backside to make heat rise in my face. Then he turns, his long stride carrying him toward the guards. Wynd moves with him as a silent shadow at his side.
I watch them cross the lobby, their tall frames cutting through the expanse with lethal grace. Yeah, Justice will pay for that pat later. Maybe.
Wesley gestures, and I walk with him to one of the sofas. The leather cushions dip as I sit, the surface cool against my thighs. Beyond the wide windows, rain streaks the glass in silver rivulets. The storm outside blurs the city into gray lines and moving shadows. The panes shimmer faintly, reinforced, maybe bulletproof.
“I have a gun in my boot.” Wesley leans closer. His powder-blue three-piece suit strains against the sling at his shoulder. “Just say the word.”
“What word?” I fight a nervous laugh. “We’re surrounded by at least ten guns right now, Wesley. We wouldn’t make it.”
“For you, I’d try.” His gaze holds mine, smart and earnest, so open I feel guilty.
I draw in a slow breath, the scent of rain and leather wrapping the moment. “I like you a lot.”
“I like you a lot too.” He leans forward another inch but doesn’t close the space. Smart man.
“But just as a friend,” I add, letting the words settle. “We weren’t going anywhere. We share code. We share computers. That’s it.”
His jaw tightens. “I’m plenty of girls’ dream guy. I know that. But I want you.” His gaze flicks over me, not lingering where it shouldn’t. “You’re gorgeous, yes. But even if you weren’t, your brain … no one talks tunneling or network paths with me the way you do. Don’t you see how perfect that is?”
I glance across the lobby. Justice stands in profile, black suit cutting sharp against the pale marble. His attention stays on the guards, but I know he’s tracking my every move.
Wesley follows my gaze, his face hardening. “You can’t have fallen for the mob boss. Have you?”
To put it mildly. The rain outside beats harder, blurring the view beyond the glass. “I have.” The truth is simple. “I’m sorry, Wesley. I hope we can still be friends.”
His wince confirms that my appeasement falls flat. “I think you’ve been brainwashed and this is Stockholm Syndrome.” His tone sharpens as he pushes to his feet.
I rise too, the leather seat creaking. “You don’t have to insult me. You just complimented my brain. I know what I’m doing. Thank you for your friendship, and I really do hope you find the right person for you.”
He towers over me when we’re both standing, his suit pulling across his shoulders. Justice dwarfs him in presence, but Wesley’s height is undeniable.
“I can’t let you give up your life like this.” His hand flexes at his side.
“I’m not giving up anything,” I murmur. “Thank you, but I think it’s time we moved on.”
A piercing shriek rips through the lobby. The sound bounces off the marble walls, shrill enough to make my pulse spike. I jolt, and Wesley spins fast, eyes wide.
Justice and Wynd are already moving, their bodies cutting a path toward me with lethal speed. Another scream follows, high-pitched, ragged, words spilling in rapid Spanish. My ears catch the rhythm but not the meaning.
We move together toward the noise at the back of the lobby and reach the hallway. Justice plants himself in front of me, his broad back a wall. “Stay here.”
“Why?” I ask, moving with him anyway.
The corridor narrows, lined with open doors. Cleaning supplies sit in plastic bins, mops leaning against tiled walls. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, cold against the shadows pooling along the floor.
A fifty-something woman wearing a pink maid’s outfit stumbles backward, hands trembling as she points, her voice breaking.
Wynd catches her by the arm, steadying her, and guides her toward the open lobby.
As we step closer, something shifts. A dead body slides forward from one of the closets, hitting the floor with a soft, sickening thud. Brown hair spills across the tile, strands catching the light. The air stills.
I stop short, the metallic tang of blood reaching me before my eyes take in the rest.
Justice’s chin lowers, his jaw set hard.
“Oh my God.” The words scrape out of me, barely audible. “That’s Sylveria Rendale.”
