Page 18 of Ruthless King (Mount Trilogy 1)
“That you’re being followed and now you know, and he knows you know?” She shrugs. “I don’t know. Depends on who you’re dealing with.”
I drop my gaze to the lid of my coffee, playing with the flap on the cup.
“Shit. It’s bad, isn’t it?”
All I can do is nod.
“How backed into a corner are you?” she asks.
I pin her with a stare. “Why do you care?”
“We tend to pick up strays at Voodoo, and while I would never consider Keira Kilgore of Seven Sinners Whiskey a stray, today you seem a little less composed than I would’ve expected given your reputation. But if there’s anything I can do to help, just tell me.”
“There’s nothing anyone can do to help. I mean, unless you’re independently wealthy with boatloads of extra liquid capital.” I grab a donut hole and shove it in my mouth to stop myself from saying any more.
As I chew, Delilah studies me again. “Fine, don’t tell me, but if you really want to do this, I can recommend a good henna artist only two blocks away.”
* * *
I leave the henna shop feeling like I regained a shred of control over my life.
Debt or no debt, at least it’s clear now—semi-permanently—that I’ll never be any man’s property. That wisp of positivity carries me all the way home, only to be doused by a cold rush of fear when I open my bedroom door and find a box on the bed.
No insignia or logo, just a big, shiny black box that’s the perfect size to hold an assortment of severed limbs.
Good God. When did I start thinking like this?
My inner voice doesn’t bother to respond because the answer is obvious. It’s not like there’s any doubt in my mind as to who it’s from.
I grab my phone and call Magnolia.
“Please tell me you didn’t do anything stupid,” she says in lieu of a greeting.
“Nothing irreparably stupid.”
Her sigh of relief comes through my speaker. “You didn’t go try to find him?”
“No, but I’m staring at a box on my bed that he or his people clearly left.”
“What’s in it?”
“I haven’t opened it.”
“What the hell are you waiting for, girl?”
“What if there are body parts inside?”
She’s silent for a beat. “You haven’t tried to run. You haven’t done anything stupid. There’s no way he’s sending you body parts. Open the damn box, Ke-ke.”
That she so matter-of-factly lists those circumstances as being the reason I haven’t received body parts reminds me just how serious my situation is. My little jaunt to the henna shop seems beyond ridiculous now. At least they wouldn’t tattoo me at Voodoo . . .
“I don’t want to open it.” My tone sounds stubborn and willful, like a child who won’t eat her vegetables.
“Don’t make me come over there and do it myself because your stubborn little Irish ass won’t. Put me on speaker, put the phone down, and open the damn box.”
“Okay, fine.” I toss the phone with the speaker engaged on my gray-and-white coverlet and reach for the top of the box to lift it off.
“You’re not screaming, so I presume we’re good on the body-part angle?”
