Rogue Royalty Read online

  “I don’t know.”

  I reach for the paper and crush it in my hands. “I feel so fucking stupid. I trusted a hit man. Who does that?”

  Keira stays silent beside me, either because now she knows who I’m talking about, or because she trusts the man who orders hit men to pull the trigger. Either way, it doesn’t change anything.

  “I can’t get over feeling so stupid. Like I brought this on myself. If I’d just—”

  “Shh.” Keira interrupts. “You can’t relive it over and over, thinking what if?”

  I turn to meet her gaze. “I know. I just wish . . .” I shake my head and look down again. I can’t face her pity. It’s too heavy.

  I clear my throat. “When do you need me to come back to work? I know I’ve taken more time than I should have.” Even as I make the offer, I cringe at the thought of going back and facing everyone.

  “Don’t worry about that. Take all the time you need. I hired someone to help out, and things are going fine. You don’t need to worry about anything but you.”

  “Are you sure?” Relief rolls through me.

  “Yes. Absolutely. Seven Sinners isn’t going anywhere. Is there anything you need? Anything at all I can do to help?”

  I’m quiet for several beats.

  “I want to talk to Mount.” I lock eyes with Keira. “I need to talk to Mount.”

  After a few moments, she replies quietly, “Then I’ll make it happen.”

  3

  Temperance

  No one in their right mind begs for an audience with the bogeyman, but I’ve long since quit thinking of myself as sane.

  My buzzer rings, and I walk to the intercom.

  “Yes?”

  There’s a grunt in response. No words. But the grunt tells me all I need to know.

  My ride is here, and my driver is a man who doesn’t speak. V.

  I’m going to face the devil himself and demand answers. If only I could demand that he bring my brother back. That’s all I want.

  That and to shed this heavy cloak of betrayal that weighs down my every step.

  Kane lied to me.

  I believed him.

  I hate myself for that. Maybe even more than I hate him.

  “I’m on my way down,” I say into the intercom, like there’s any chance I’m going to miss this meeting.

  I shove my feet into battered work boots. They fit with my ripped jeans and old T-shirt. It’s the best I can manage.

  When I opened my closet earlier to find something to wear, a memory of scanning the very same clothes to find something to wear to the club hits me.

  To wear to the club to meet him.

  I slammed the door shut and scooped something off my floor.

  At least jeans and a T-shirt don’t make me want to crawl back into bed and give up on the world like a skirt or dress would. Everything makes me think of him and all the mistakes I made. How easily I was played.

  And now, nothing will ever be the same.

  I leave my apartment, locking the door behind me, and plod down the spiral staircase.

  Harriet’s windows are open, and an opera I have zero chance of naming floats out onto the evening air.

  I stop and tell her I’m leaving, but I don’t want to talk more than necessary. I realize I’m being awful to everyone who gives the tiniest damn about me. That list is short to begin with, so I should be kinder and more grateful, but I just don’t have it in me right now.

  I hate myself for that too.

  With a deep breath, I make my way down the brick walkway to the gate, where I see V, Keira’s driver and bodyguard, standing beside a black car.

  The car.

  I almost puke my guts up on the brick pathway when I realize it’s the Maybach I rode to the airport in with Kane. On the way to meet my brother to flee the country. But really, there was no trip planned. Only my brother’s execution.

  Mount knows I rode in this car.

  Fucking asshole. Is this his way of testing me? Forcing me to relive it? Making me decide how badly I want to see him and get my answers?

  I wrap my fingers around the wrought-iron bars and stare at V. He stares back at me, expressionless.

  I can’t do this.

  He lifts his chin, crosses his arms, and waits.

  I hate him too.

  Swallowing the bile rising in my throat, I release the bars and reach for the latch.

  I can do this. I have no choice.

  Silently, I cross the sidewalk, and V turns to open the back door for me.

  I freeze as soon as I see the interior. I swear I can smell Kane’s uniquely spicy scent in the air.

  Stop being so dramatic, Temperance. Get in the fucking car.

  I berate myself for my weakness, just like I’ve berated myself for everything else over the last month. If I’d had a whip, my skin would be ribbons.

  I get in the car and squeeze my eyes shut as he closes me inside. On the seat next to me is a black hood.

  No fucking way.

  When the front door closes, V grunts and my gaze snaps to the rearview mirror. He nods, and I know what he wants. He wants me to put it on.

  Just like Kane made me wear the beanie.

  “And if I don’t?” I ask.

  He points to the gate I just came out.

  “I hate you,” I tell him. It’s juvenile and makes me a bitch, but I don’t care.

  Memories come tumbling back as I grab the black hood and pull it over my head.

  “So, where to? The bat cave?”

  My naive quip of a question from weeks ago sucker punches me in the gut as the world goes dark.

  Now the fucking bat cave is mine, and all I want to do is burn it to the ground. And maybe I will.

  The drive to Mount’s compound is quick, as I expected. I know it’s in the French Quarter, but I’ve never been there. It’s not exactly a place people are invited to.

  When V opens the back door, I reach for the hood, and when I don’t hear a grunt, I tug it off.

  He nods and jerks his chin to the side, indicating I should get out. I follow him through a door and up a windowless set of stairs and down several corridors. It reminds me of the club.

  No. No, it does not. It’s nothing like it.

  When he pushes a hidden button and the wall in front of us moves, I jerk back.

  Now, this reminds me more of a bat cave.

  Again, a slice of betrayal shears through me. I follow V and find myself in some kind of library office. Heavy bookcases line the walls, and a large wooden desk dominates the space in front of me.

  Mount sits behind the desk, scrawling something on a piece of paper before he folds it and shoves it in an envelope.

  A soft whoosh comes from behind me, and I whip around to see Scar exit through the spinning fireplace door.

  What the hell?

  I’ve finished surveying the contents of the room—two leather chairs, a few lamps, and a sideboard with decanters of liquor—when Mount finally looks up.

  “I don’t take meeting requests, Ms. Ransom. I’m humoring you only for the sake of my wife. Tread carefully.”

  Under normal circumstances, I’d be shaking in my boots, literally. But now? I have nothing to lose. Absolutely nothing.

  Suddenly, all the questions I desperately want answered fly out of my head, leaving only one.

  “Why?” It sounds like someone dragged the word from my throat with rusty pliers.

  His black gaze narrows on me. “Why what?”

  “Why did you do it? Did you want my brother dead? Is that it?”

  Mount leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. The fit of his custom-tailored suit reminds me too much of Kane, and I have to force myself not to look away.

  “You have my condolences on the loss of your brother, Ms. Ransom.”

  “That’s not why I’m—”

  He cuts me off with a glare. “If I’d wanted Ransom dead, he would’ve been. As for why I did any of it? I don’t need to
explain myself, but I will say that you getting kidnapped and killed would’ve made my wife unhappy. Keeping you safe was the only way to avoid that.”

  The rage that started building in me earlier comes to a head as I stalk toward his desk.

  “But you had to know about the plan to kill Rafe!”

  Mount rises to his feet and plants his fists on the desk in front of him. “What I knew then or know now is none of your fucking business.”

  A sob chokes me, cutting off my ability to respond, and my knees give out. I stumble backward and land in a chair, rocking forward as the tears come again.

  I don’t care that I’m crying in Mount’s office. I don’t care about anything but the gaping wounds tearing me apart.

  “You’re going to make yourself sick crying like that.”

  I blink through my torrent of tears to find a box of tissues shoved onto my lap and Mount crouching in front of me.

  “If you tell anyone I keep tissues in my office, I’ll make sure you’re never heard from again. It would destroy my reputation.”

  The statement is delivered deadpan and I know it’s meant as humor, but I don’t have any to spare right now. I take a tissue from the box and blow my nose.

  “You’re not helping yourself by wallowing in your grief, Temperance. I told you before, you’re cut from the same cloth as my wife. That means you will find that last reserve of strength, put some steel in your spine, and stand up. You’re not dead. Quit acting like it.”

  My tears dry up. “Don’t pretend you know me. Don’t pretend you have any idea how it feels—”

  “It doesn’t matter what I know or how you feel. You want to crawl into that coffin with your brother? Feel free. But you will not drag my wife down with you. I’ll make sure you’re cut loose long before that.”

  I jerk back. “What do you mean?”

  “Right now, you’re making her sad. I eliminate things that make Keira sad. Do you understand me?”

  My jaw hangs open. “Are you seriously threatening to kill me because I upset Keira? After watching my brother die in front of me?”

  I remember my confrontation with Gregor Standish, and how I worried for him because of what he said about Keira . . . and then he died. There’s no question in my mind that Mount was responsible for his death because of Standish’s attack on her and the distillery.

  My question goes unanswered, but I know Mount’s response would be a resounding yes. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Keira.

  I wanted that, even though I didn’t know I wanted it. Another pang of grief and anger tears into me.

  “Get up. Wipe off the tears. Get your life together. And don’t go back to Seven Sinners until you can talk without screaming or crying. Do you understand me?”

  Mount is harsh and brutal, and part of me hates him for it. The other part . . . the other part knows I needed to hear it. I reach out to grasp his wrist before he walks away.

  His gaze flicks down to where I’m touching him and moves back to my face.

  “No matter how much I needed to hear that, I still hate you for whatever part you played in this.”

  “Duly noted.” He tugs his wrist free from my grip. “You’re excused, Ms. Ransom.”

  4

  Temperance

  As if through Mount’s will, my tears dry up.

  I’m not dead, and I have to quit acting like it.

  This is the second time in a year that I’ve been violently reminded that life is short. And look where me seizing the moment got me last time.

  Looking for a club where I could indulge my dirtiest fantasies, but not finding one. Then accidentally stumbling upon one and living out my fantasies with a stranger. A stranger who ended up being not just a hit man, but a hit man who had a contract to kill my brother—and promised not to fulfill that contract.

  Never trust a hit man. You’d think that would be obvious, but apparently not when your name is Temperance Ransom.

  I push all that aside and stare at the blank sheet in front of me.

  It’s time to figure out what the hell I’m going to do next. Living in a fog of grief isn’t going to work. Rafe would be so pissed at me.

  Well, I’m pissed at you too, Rafe. You should have never taken that job.

  I shut down that thought too.

  What happened is done. Now all that’s left is for me to move forward, no matter how badly I want to curl up in a ball and let myself wither away.

  I’m done withering. It’s time to live.

  Squeezing the pencil between my fingers, I think of what I want most—other than my brother back. And the other thing I refuse to put into words because I can’t possibly want it.

  My mind stays completely blank.

  Wow. Failing at dreaming. Excellent.

  I toss the pencil down and walk to the cupboard and open it. The shelf where I keep my alcohol is empty.

  Harriet.

  Knowing the old woman, she only took it because she wants to draw me out of my apartment if I want to drink, not actually prevent me from drinking.

  She’s wily.

  I stalk back to the table to snatch up the paper and pencil and head for the door.

  If she’s going to rob me of my booze, she may as well help me figure out where the hell I go from here.

  This time, instead of opera, she’s listening to Tupac when I open the back door.

  “Harriet?”

  She looks up from the easel in the middle of the living room where she’s painting. “Steal the booze and she will come. That’s what I always say.”

  I nod at the easel. “Am I interrupting?”

  “No, I’m just inventing a new school of painting. I call it West Coast Modern.”

  Of course she is. Why wouldn’t she? This woman has probably lived more in one year than I have in my entire life.

  She notices the paper in my hand. “Grocery list?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Bucket list?”

  Her second guess is eerily accurate.

  “Something like that.”

  A smile spreads over her face. “Excellent!”

  She claps her hands, and blue paint splatters on her hot pink smock before she returns the brush to a jar and comes toward me.

  “What are we starting with? I mean, that is, if you want company for any of it. I’ve already completed three bucket lists and a fuck-it list, and I’m still not dead, so I need someone else’s next.” She snatches the paper from my hand and her head jerks back. “It’s blank. Good Lord, Temperance. No wonder you need me so badly.”

  Harriet takes the pencil from my hand and lays the paper on the counter. She scrawls something on the top line before turning it around so I can read it.

  I expect it to say something insane, like three-way with two Russian princes, but once again, Harriet manages to shock me.

  * * *

  1. Be happy.

  * * *

  It’s so simple.

  I lift my gaze to hers and whisper, “Be happy.”

  “It’s the only thing that truly matters, my dear. If you can do that, life is magical.” Her faded gaze meets mine. “Darling, you’re not the only one to have loved and lost. I had a family—brothers and sisters. I’ve outlived them all. Husbands too. Although only one at a time. Either way, loss is never easy.” She covers my hand with her paint-spattered one. “But it’s also never a reason to give up living yourself.”

  “How do you get over it?”

  She squeezes my fingers. “You don’t. You live with it. The pain will always be there, but in time, it won’t be as sharp. One day, you’ll go a minute without thinking about them. Someday, an hour. Eventually, you might live an entire day without being overwhelmed by grief. Healing takes time.”

  At this very moment, I can’t imagine not thinking about what happened for a minute, an hour, and especially not a day. But Harriet has never lied to me, and she’s clearly wiser than I am.

  “So, what’s next on my list?” />
  She releases my hand and turns toward her wine fridge. “That, my dear, only you can answer. Dream big.”

  It takes several glasses of champagne for me to pick up the pencil again, but by the time I leave Harriet’s, I’ve added a few things to the list.

  * * *

  2. Honor my brother’s memory.

  3. Introduce myself as an artist.

  4. Drink wine at Harriet’s vineyard in Italy.

  5. Travel the world.

  * * *

  There’s one more thing I want to write down, but I’m not brave—or stupid—enough yet.

  Find love again.

  5

  Temperance

  The next day, I wake up and take a shower. I’ve wasted a month of my life drowning in grief over things I can’t change, and it’s time to take a step toward my future, even if I have no idea what it holds. I put on makeup, dress in jeans and a tank top, and leave my apartment before ten o’clock.

  I’m going to get coffee and a beignet, and then I need to track down the Tahoe with my sculpture. I also need to get my Bronco back, although I’m not sure I’m ready to do that. It’s time to start reclaiming my life, no matter how much it hurts to think about all of those things.

  On the way to the café, a prickle of unease creeps down my spine when I see a man in a baseball cap, dark glasses, and wearing all black duck into a doorway as I turn a corner and look behind me.

  Am I being followed?

  I rush home and slam the gate behind me with a clang before leaning against the brick and fishing out my phone. I start talking as soon as Keira answers with a cautious greeting.

  “I need to talk to Mount. I need to know if they’re going to come after me, because I think I’m being followed.”

  “Whoa. Whoa. What are you talking about?” My boss’s tone takes on a panicked edge. “Where are you?”

  “I’m at my apartment, but I think someone was following me when I went for coffee this morning. I thought with Rafe gone they wouldn’t keep coming after me.”