Page 118 of The Gift
“Yeah, you are. You’ve slayed shit I have no concept of understanding, and you’re the most perfect girly girl I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. Pink is your colour, peach is your scent, soft is your style, and I’ll kill any motherfucker who makes you want to hide again.”
“Umm maybe you shouldn’t come tonight if you’re feeling a bit stabby…”
He laughs, like belly-laugh, and when he stops, he’s wiping his eyes. “Shit, that was funny. Do me a favour and wear something super sexy to dinner, and lots of red lipstick.”
Reno joins me in the shower, washing my hair, shaving my legs, leaving me a little wobbly on my feet when he uses his fingers too enthusiastically when rinsing the unscented body wash off.
Henley’s waiting in my walk-in closet to help me dress. I’m not incapable; my arm makes it difficult but this is a part of us healing. I stand between his suit clad thighs, climbing into my underwear—pale peach, lacy and barely there. I never considered dressing could be such a turn on, but the way his fingers softly glide over my skin leaves me wanting to make us late.
Dropping his head to my stomach, he takes in a large inhale, his eyes flying up to mine as his pupils dilate. He doesn’t need to say a word. He pulls my dress up, his hands on my waist turning me slowly. He starts perfuming which only adds to the heat burning through my body.
“I’m going to ravish your body for hours tonight. So much so that we’ll need to change the sheets before we sleep. First though, we’re going to have a nice dinner with Pack Miller. One that’s been a long time coming.”
On Henley’s face is a half-smile; the tilt of his lush lips is wicked. Part of it is based on his hunger for me, the other is in anticipation of what I already know is going to happen, because there’s a new list upstairs, and this one is not based on hard limits, this one is a little bloodier.
Henley
“Taylor,” I call his name loudly, keeping my hand on Bailey’s lower back as we approach his table. I want this fucker to see us coming, his day of reckoning is here. Well, the first day of many is.
None of his pack rise to their feet at our arrival. Their lack of respect is nothing surprising, and I won a bet with Ashton, expecting the insult. What does surprise me, and even brings an extra pep to my step, is when I realise that the idiot requested two spare settings at the table, like he’s honouring the fact some of his pack would be here if they could be.
He really has made this all too easy. Almost like we’re standing at a shooting gallery, and I only have four ducks left to go.
“Hen.” Bailey laughs under her breath, no doubt seeing what I’m seeing.
“See how fucking incredible you are?” I say, leaning in to kiss her cheek.
Getting a table at Pack Miller’s preferred dining establishment was also too easy. These pre-programmed gits don’t do anything out of the ordinary, living their anal existence in their bland scheduled world. On Tuesday they eat at Laurent. Thursday’s is Orlando on Third, and Sunday is Mont Des. I suspect Taylor schedules when his pack are allowed to take a dump too.
Even Thomas killing the cleaner at the omega centre would have occurred on a schedule, after it had been tabled in a long-winded meeting where the pros and cons would have been presented in PowerPoint. Francine would have taken minutes and issued them in a timely manner. Nothing happens in Pack Miller without Taylor Miller’s approval, which is why we’re here.
And the man in question doesn’t even stop eating his itty-bitty flaky pastry pie.
“I’ll have you removed, dragged out of here in front of everyone,” Taylor threatens, keeping his voice low, not wanting to make a scene in this expensive restaurant. He takes another measured bite, the others following his lead, chewing three times before they swallow.
“I have a reservation,” I reply dryly, flicking my hand at the front managers, urging them to stay away.
“You have a nerve showing up here. You, and your pack are not welcome.” Taylor glares politely while the tension around us builds. But he’s controlled in his responses, and still takes his dainty bites.
“You want to talk nerve?” I flick my eyebrow up, ignoring his suggestion we leave.
He stops, looking up from his meal, even putting down his cutlery like he’s trying at being polite. And then in the next breath, he tries to move me on with nothing more than a condescending flick of his hand. Expecting me to leave, he picks up his knife and fork to restart eating.
I lean over the expanse of the table and spit on his entrée.
Taylor’s eyes flash to mine. And finally, I see unplanned emotion in them.
“You disgusting pig.” He snaps, waving his hand, calling for the manager.
And my woman doesn’t flinch when he stands so suddenly that the chair he was sitting on bounces on the parquetry floor. The rest of his pack stands, mimicking him in every way, and the noise in the restaurant disappears.
I smile at him, paying the rest of his pack no credence because he doesn’t have a pack, he has disciples. “You owe Bailey an apology.”
“I owe the whore on your arm an apology? For what?” he scoffs. His laughter is as cruel as his question.
Maybe he doesn’t realise what a fucking backbone my girl has. Being called a whore is nothing when you’ve survived what she has.
“For the last time, cockhead, you owe Bailey an apology. Now. And then I can let you get back to the rest of your evening.”
