Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 78807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78807 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 394(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 263(@300wpm)
I take a step back, shoulders slumping. “Which means I’m screwed.”
She holds up a finger, grinning. “Actually, no. Like you said, Robin’s a very smart girl. She has an idea about what you can do. I’m telling you all this so you’ll listen to her.”
I nod slowly. “I will then. Thank you.”
“Good. Well, good luck.” She turns and strides off.
I watch her go, feeling an ugly twist in my stomach.
McLaren wants to string me along. He wants to make me dance for him, all for his own sick pleasure, to help ease his wounded pride. If that was what it took to make things right, I’d do it for Dara, for the baby, for Genna and my crew. But if he thinks I’ll bow and scrape and beg, but get nothing in return, the man doesn’t know me, and he sure as fuck doesn’t understand the Crowleys.
I head into the back yard. On the right is a large patio with furniture. There’s a pool, a manicured yard, and tennis courts down a short slope.
Robin’s lying on a chair next to the water. She sits up on an elbow as I approach, wearing a dark blue bathing suit, a grin on her face. She looks ten years younger and a dozen times prettier than last we met. Probably because she’s not staring at me like she wants to rip my spine out.
“Well, well,” she says, flipping up her sunglasses. “Finn Crowley, the man that owes me his life.”
I laugh and take the chair beside her. “Robin McLaren. The girl that should be thankful I decided to dump her ass.”
She grins huge. “The sweetest breakup I’ve ever gone through. Here to ask for my father’s forgiveness?”
“I am,” I confirm, glancing toward the house, then out toward the tennis courts. “Except your mother intercepted me and brought me to you instead.”
Robin slumps back onto the chair. “That’s because my father plans on fucking with you,” she says, stifling a yawn. “I’m pretty sure he wants to make your life hell and still never forgive you.”
“Your mother thinks you have a way out of this for me.”
“And she’s correct.” Robin glances at me over the rim of her sunglasses. “How about owing me another massive favor? Huh, Crowley?”
“Robin, if you can help fix this fucked-up mess I’ve stumbled into, I’ll happily give you anything you want.”
“Perfect,” she says, sitting back. “Because my favors are very expensive.”
Chapter 32
Finn
I follow Robin into the house. It reminds me of the Crowley mansion, except on a smaller scale: built with old-world charm but laced through with modern conveniences. It isn’t quite so lavish, not as large or as absurd, but it’s still the sort of home meant to exude wealth and power in a way that most people only dream about.
“Dad’s in his office, probably sharpening his knives,” Robin says as she adjusts her cover-up and pulls on a pair of shorts she has lying over a kitchen chair. “Did I mention the vintage sword collection?”
“You left that small detail out.”
“Dad has this theory about business. He thinks it’s the most similar thing a modern man can get to classic, hand-to-hand warfare.” She rolls her eyes. “I think, you know, actual war is probably closer. Also, that’s the furthest thing from original.”
“He’s welcome to spend a few week on my turf when the local gangs start acting up if he’s interested in violence.”
“No, I think Dad prefers reading about it.” She leads me through a series of halls until we reach the front of the house. Her father’s study is right next to the front entryway past a pair of large wooden double-doors.
I gawk at the sheer number of weapons hanging on the walls. Basket-hilt rapiers, massive German two-handers, dozens of katanas and wakizashi, and more weapons I can’t even name, and I loved watching Game of Thrones.
“Robin, you brought him. How nice.” Clive McLaren sits behind a desk similar to my father’s, though this one is more modern. Just as Robin predicted, he’s busy polishing the blade of a wicked-looking sword, a curved scimitar that looks like it’s an actual antique.
“You knew he was coming,” Robin says sweetly, approaching his desk.
He scowls at me and lowers the blade. “Your father might have mentioned something about you begging for my forgiveness.” With a practiced jerk, he sheathes the weapon, sliding it home with a satisfying click.
The Clive I remember from my meeting with him back in the Crowley mansion was a simpering little weakling, but this man seems much more in control on his own home turf. Probably because he thinks I’m about to get down on my knees and treat him like a king. Too bad there’s no way in hell that’s going to happen.
I underestimated him once, and I won’t make that mistake again.
“Sir, I’m here to discuss the broken agreement between our families.” I stand with my back straight, my hands clasped. “I understand it caused you some problems—”