Savage Hearts (Queens & Monsters Book 3)

The inside of the estate/castle/palace/whatever is even more impressive than the outside.

Everything is made of marble, crystal, or polished mahogany. Blank-eyed Grecian statues lurk in lit alcoves in the walls. Expensive bric-a-brac decorates every available surface. Plush Turkish rugs muffle our footsteps, while white linen curtains draped in front of floor-to-ceiling windows billow and fold in the languid sea breeze.

I gape at all the glamour right side up, because Declan set me back onto my feet as soon as we came indoors.

I still haven’t forgiven him for it.

I trail behind him and Sloane as they lead me to the guest room where I’ll be staying. It probably has its own pool. “So, Declan. What kind of work do you do?”

He and Sloane exchange a glance. He says, “International relations.”

Outside the windows, a pair of armed guards prowl by. “Really? That’s interesting. I saw this Denzel Washington movie one time where he told people he was in international relations, but he actually worked for the CIA. Do you work for the CIA?”

He scoffs. “They wish.”

“The FBI?”

He lifts a muscular shoulder. “Occasionally.”

“Yeah, me, too. Only when they twist my arm, though. I much prefer working for MI-5.”

“Six.”

“Excuse me?”

“MI-6 is foreign intelligence operating outside the UK. MI-5 is domestic.”

“Oh, right. I always forget. It’s hard sometimes to remember all the different intelligence agencies I spy for.”

“Tell me about it.”

That makes me grin. I love it when people play along with my silly games.

At the end of a long corridor, we stop outside a closed door. Declan leans against the wall, folds his bulging arms over his chest, and smiles down at me. My ovaries sigh in contentment.

“I’ll let you get settled in and give you girls a chance to catch up. If there’s anything you need, just pick up the phone.”

“I don’t have a cell. I’m philosophically opposed to technology that can stalk me.”

“I meant the phone next to your bed.”

When I cock an eyebrow, Sloane says, “It’s the house phone. Tell whoever answers what you want, and they’ll bring it.”

I look back and forth between the two of them. “Who is this person who’ll answer?”

“Whoever’s on shift,” says Declan.

“So you have staff, too, not just an army of bodyguards. Kinda like Downton Abbey, except with guns.”

Declan chuckles. “You’re a lot like your sister.”

“Don’t tell her that. She’ll break off the engagement. Speaking of engagement, Sloane, why aren’t you wearing a ring?”

Declan turns to her and says mildly, “Good question. I can’t wait to hear the answer.”

She rolls her eyes. “Technically, I haven’t said yes yet.”

I almost punch her in the face.

“What?” I holler. “Are you crazy?” I make spokesmodel hands at his overall gloriousness. “He’s asked you to marry him, and you haven’t said yes? What is wrong with you?”

Stifling a laugh, Declan says, “Amen.”

“Also, hold on a minute, because did you or did you not say you wanted me to visit because you’d be getting married any day? To your fiancé?”

Exasperated, she says, “We will be getting married any day. When I finally say yes.”

“You act like that makes any kind of sense. Spoiler alert! It doesn’t.”

“I ask her every day if she’ll marry me,” Declan interrupts, his voice throaty. “She always says not yet. But one day soon, she’ll agree, and we’ll go straight to the courthouse and make it official.”

He looks at her with hot, half-lidded eyes.

How she manages to stay upright under that smoldering look and not melt into a flaming puddle of hormones is beyond me.

Indignant, I turn to her. “Are you deliberately leading him on? Because that’s not cool.”

“Not cool,” agrees Declan, shaking his head.

She chews the inside of her lip and glances at the floor.

The hesitation is wildly uncharacteristic of her. She doesn’t stop to think before she answers. It makes me worry. The Sloane I know would’ve already slapped me across the face by now.

Figuratively speaking. With scorn.

Looking at her feet, she says softly, “I’m not leading him on. It’s just so perfect right now, the way things are between us. There’s no way it can get better than it already is. I don’t want to ruin it.”

Declan looks at her with so much need and devotion burning in his eyes, I’m embarrassed to be standing there. Then he grabs her and gives her a passionate kiss.

He pulls away and stares down into her eyes, all burning heat and hunger.

He growls, “Say yes, and I swear every day will be better than the last, you bloody stubborn woman. You have my heart. My soul. My life. I want you to have my name as well, and wear my ring, so everyone who sees you knows you belong to me. I’m so proud to be your man, I want the whole goddamn world to know you’re mine.”

Sloane and I are both stunned and breathless.

This man is just…wow.

I’ll get back to you with an impressive adjective. Right now, I’m speechless.

If she doesn’t marry him within twenty-four hours, she’s dead to me forever.

I push past them into the room, close the door behind me, lean close to it and say loudly, “Great to meet you, Declan. Call me when it’s supper time. I’m gonna take a nap on this bed that’s large enough for ten people. When I wake up, I expect to see a ring on that finger, Sloane. You idiot.”

Then I lie facedown on the bed, feeling sorry for myself that I don’t have even a quarter of my sister’s beauty or style.

I fall asleep fantasizing that I’m a beautiful queen with a harem of virile Irishmen.

When I open my eyes, the sun is setting. Sloane is lying on the floor nearby with her long legs up on an overstuffed chintz chair, toying with a strand of her hair and staring at the ceiling.

I prop myself up onto my elbows and gaze down at her. “Ugh. I hate it that you can look so good when you’re contemplative. When I have deep thoughts, I look like I need to take a dump.”

She closes her eyes and starts laughing.

“You think I’m joking, but I’m not. It’s one hundred percent legit.”

“Oh, I know,” she says, sitting up. Supple as a cat, she folds her legs underneath her and smiles at me. “I remember those faces you make. You take after Dad.”

“He is strangely expressive for a military man, isn’t he? You think they’d have militarized it out of him. All that marching and following orders and whatnot would definitely make my eyes glaze right over.”

“Declan was in the military, and he’s still very expressive.”

As soon as she says it, two faint spots of pink appear high on her cheeks.

I can tell she’s thinking of exactly how “expressive” he is.

Now I’m thinking about it, and I’m getting all flustered, too.

“Yuck. I don’t need to picture my big sister having all kinds of excessively hot sex, thank you very much. Also, oh. My. God, dude. Where did you find him, and how many brothers does he have? I want two, at least!”

“He’s amazing, isn’t he?”

She bats her lashes and sighs like a crazy person. Or at least some other person, some romantic, sweet person with idealized notions of love, not her.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, sit up, and squint at her. “You’re really in love with him, aren’t you?”

“Yes. It’s horrible. I mean, it’s wonderful, but also horrible, because…”

“You’re not in control anymore.”

She nods, cringing. “And I never had anything worth losing before. I never cared before, about anything but myself. Now, I care about everything. I’m one big, sentimental ball of caring. I cried watching the sunset the other day, for fuck’s sake!”

I try not to find her dismay so satisfying, but I do.

I’m a terrible person.

“Anyway.” She waves her hands to dispel that part of the conversation. “We need to do something about your hair.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

“It’s hideous. You look like you lost a bet.”

“Oh, thank goodness.”

“What?”

“For a minute there, I thought you’d been replaced by a body snatcher.”

Someone raps their knuckles softly on the door. At the same time, Sloane and I holler, “Come in!”

Spider sticks his head through. “Hullo. I have your luggage, lass. Is this a good time?”

Hot, hung, and polite. I swear, I’m going to find a scientist to clone him and Declan and make me the perfect male.

“C’mon in. You can drop it anywhere.”

He walks inside, carrying my bag and my future children’s chromosomes, and nods a hello to Sloane. He sets the bag on the floor next to the dresser then turns to leave.

“Wait,” says Sloane. “Where’s the rest?”

“That was the only one, madam.”

She makes a sour face. “What did I tell you about calling me that?”

He looks like he’s trying not to smile. I like him even more now that I know he’s been teasing her. It takes balls, which I already know he’s not lacking.

I mean, I’ve got visual proof. It’s staring me right in the face.

“…Riley?”

“What?” I rip my gaze away from the substantial bulge in Spider’s trousers and look at Sloane. “Sorry, I didn’t hear what you said.”

She says drily, “I wonder why.”

I narrow my eyes and mentally telegraph a threat that she receives and smiles at condescendingly. “I asked where the rest of your luggage is.”

“I don’t have other luggage. That’s it.”

She stares in disbelief at my single carry-on, a beat-up duffle I bought before I went away to college years ago. “You brought one bag?”

“You say that like I just informed you it’s filled with body parts.”

Ignoring my sarcasm, she insists, “How can you travel with one piece of luggage? Where’s your shoe bag? Your cosmetics bag? Your formal wear bag? All your clothes?”

She gazes around the room as if expecting a set of monogrammed Louis Vuitton steamer trunks to appear from thin air, bursting with mink stoles and evening gowns.

Smiling, I say, “It’s really gonna break your brain when I tell you my laptop’s in there, too.”

Spider catches my eye and winks. Then he leaves, closing the door behind him.

Sloane jumps up, crosses to the bag, bends over, rips the zipper open, and stares down at the contents. She rifles around in it for a moment, then straightens and looks at me.

“What’s with all the boxes of candy?”

“I don’t travel anywhere without Twizzlers. And you can’t get those watermelon Sour Patch Kids everywhere, so because I didn’t know where I was going…” I shrug. “Better safe than sorry.”

She closes her eyes, draws a breath, gathers herself, then looks at me again.

“Do you have any other items of clothing that aren’t gray or made of fleece?”

“Yeah. Duh. My undies.”

“My god. I can’t believe we’re related.”

She’s so horrified, she’s about to make the sign of the cross over her chest. Or maybe call for a priest and douse me with a vial of holy water. It makes me laugh.

“Oh, relax, Beyoncé. There’s other stuff under the candy.”

When she looks hopefully at the duffel, I say, “I also brought white T-shirts and jean shorts.”

Her expression indicates she might be tasting the regurgitated remains of her lunch. “I can see we’ll need to do some shopping while you’re here, too.”

“Too?”

“In addition to taming that feral skunk on top of your head.”

“Excuse me, but not everyone thinks it’s necessary to look like a fashion model.”

“There has to be a happy medium between fashion model and hobo.”

“If you mean people who don’t have homes, Cruella, the correct term is unhoused. Hobo is super derogatory.”

“You’ve been living in San Francisco too long.”

“Can we table this discussion that’s sure to devolve into a political shouting match for a sec so I can ask when we’re going to eat? The last thing I had was a gross clot of slimy black fish eggs with some coagulated dairy product on a piece of bread the size of a quarter. I’m absolutely famished. You rich people eat like birds.”

She pauses for a beat, then covers her face with her hands and dissolves into laughter.

I say drily, “I’m glad my starvation is amusing you.”

“It’s just that I forgot how funny you are.”

“Funny as in ha-ha, or funny as in weird?”

“Ha-ha.” She thinks for a moment. “And also weird.”

“Thanks for that. Changing gears again: what does Declan do for a living? And don’t lie to me. I’m not one of your bedazzled fuck boys. I know when you’re not telling the truth.”

Her smile fades. She walks slowly to the chair she had her feet propped up on, sits, and folds her hands demurely between her thighs. “I want to tell you, but I don’t want you to judge.”

My laugh is short and disbelieving. “Judge? Dude, I went on a date last week with a person who has a penis and a vagina. And showed them both to me during dinner. I’m not the judgmental type.”

Sloane looks fascinated. “Really?”

“Yes. Like you said, I’ve been living in San Francisco for quite some time. There’s literally nothing that can shock me anymore.”

“Okay. Well, if you must know…” Hesitating, she takes a deep breath. “He’s in the Mob. Actually, he is the Mob. He’s, like, the main guy.”

Several things click inside my head, and I nod thoughtfully. “Hmm. Makes sense. So about the eating situation again. Are we doing that before or after I let you do something awful to my hair that I’m sure to regret?”

When she only sits there staring at me, her eyes welling with tears, I get panicky.

“Oh, shit. What’s wrong? Please tell me he’s not cheating on you. I’m not sure whose side I’d take.”

She leaps from the chair and launches herself across the room, slamming into me and flinging her arms around my neck.

I’m almost thrown back onto the mattress. Despite my total shock and the force of her embrace, I manage to stay upright. Then she bursts into tears, leaving me at a complete loss.

I say tentatively, “Um. What’s happening now?”

She wails, “I’m sorry is what’s happening! I’ve been a terrible sister, and you’re being so nice, and I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other since your birthday a few years ago!”

Three years ago, to be precise.

Not that I’ll ever be able to forget it.

My boyfriend at the time took one look at Sloane and pronounced he was dating the wrong sister. He broke up with me on the spot.

In the middle of my friggin’ birthday party.

When I heard through a friend a few weeks later that they’d been seen together and called her to find out if it was true, she scoffed and said, “Who? Oh my god, that loser’s already in the rearview mirror.”

That “loser” she could barely remember had been my boyfriend for more than a year. He took my virginity. I thought we were madly in love.

After that, I started telling my dates I was an only child.

I haven’t seen Sloane since.

I pat her awkwardly on the back. “Okay, Hollywood. C’mon now. You’ll ruin your mascara.”

She pulls away, sniffling and gripping my upper arms like she’s planning on holding me hostage. “Say you forgive me,” she demands vehemently. “Please. Let’s make this a new beginning. We’ll start over from scratch.”

I frown at her. Who is this person?

When her big pleading eyes get to be too much, I relent.

“Fine. It’s a new beginning. But I’m withholding forgiveness until after I see what you’ve got planned for my hair.”

She bites her lower lip, tears spill over the edge of her bottom lids, and what the fuck has happened to my sister?

Daddy Declan must be laying some serious pipe to have turned this stone cold savage into such a sweetheart.

Lucky bitch.