Page 13 of Knox

And in its place, I have a lunatic stalking me and a bunch of Marvel-hero-looking assholes telling me how to live my life.

Screw that!

“What the fuck, Arthur?”

My great-uncle stands behind the desk, sifting through a tower of files. “Lower your voice, Cillian,” he says without looking up. “They’ll hear you.”

“I want them to hear me! I want them to pack their bags and get the hell out of my house.”

“Then be as loud as you want. But you’ll be wasting your time.”

“Who gave you the right to hire a private army without consulting me?”

“The right of a family member who doesn’t want to see you dead,” Arthur says, finally looking up.

His expression is so infuriatingly calm; it only makes me angrier.

“You are being reckless, Cillian.”

“I’m being reasonable!” I slam my hands onto the desk and glare at him.

“Don’t be so dramatic.”

“I’m being dramatic?!” I snatch one of the anonymous magazine-cutout letters off the desk and shake it. “You’re the one who hired the men who stopped Elijah fucking West, all to deal with a threat that looks like it was made by an angsty teen with a Vogue subscription.”

“They are death threats.”

“Arthur… please,” I beg, but he only shakes his head.

God, he is so stubborn.

…Which, I guess, runs in the family.

Exhausted, I flop into one of the armchairs in front of the desk and sigh. “Then at least hire them only for the auction.”

“That’s three weeks from now. It’s too long to go without security.”

“I can’t concentrate like this,” I say, trying another angle. “You know the auction was my grandfather’s favorite event of the year. This is my first year planning it by myself, and I can’t let it be ruined over something this stupid.”

“You know my brother would’ve done the same. Now stop wasting your time, because this isn’t a negotiation, Cillian. They’re staying.”

“You mean they’re hired.”

“Hired and staying.”

“Staying here?” I scoff in disbelief, but the Judas of an uncle just smiles at me. “Are you insane? Send them to a hotel.”

“There are ten guest suites in this house, most of which are collecting dust. Why in God’s name would we pay for a hotel when we have one right here?”

“What about my personal space?!”

“Clasp your hands,” he orders, and when I don’t move, he gives me “the look.”

I begrudgingly do it. “Fine… now what?”

“Now lift them.”

I raise my arms, framing a tiny circle of empty air in front of my chest.