The Enigma (Unlawful Men)

“All these years I was sure I would know your face when I saw it.”

I smile, and it’s as salacious as fuck. My father was a showman, yes. But he kept me, Mum, and my sister well away from the spotlight. I’d love nothing more than to tell him who I am. Why I’ve hunted him and his men for so long. Unfortunately, I can’t do that until I can look him in the eye. Right before I kill him. I’m dead. Otto made sure of that. I need to remain that way after this is over. “Annoyed?” I ask.

“Mildly. I lost a few good men for the cause. But whether I recognize you is irrelevant now. I know what you look like and where you are. So I’m one step ahead of you, yes?”

For the first time, yes. He’s one step ahead. But not for long. “Seems we’re both being enlightened these days.”

“Oh?”

“Nathan Butler,” I say simply, but I get no reaction. Not that I expected one.

“Beau Hayley,” he says instead and, fuck me, I react.

“She stays out of this.”

“You’ve put her in the center. That was very stupid if you want her to be safe.”

“She’s innocent.”

“She’s digging like her mother.”

My jaw feels like it could break. “She knows her mother’s death wasn’t an accident.”

He laughs. “Then perhaps you should convince her. If you want her to live, that is.”

“Do not push me.”

“Back off, and so will I.”

It should be an easy deal. Should be. “Never.”

“Every time you kill one of my men, I lose money. And patience.”

“I bleed for you,” I seethe, my blood burning my veins.

“Who are you?” His voice is suddenly lacking the lightness he kicked off with. “James Kelly, who the fuck are you and what do you want?”

“I’m your end,” I promise, hanging up and bracing my hands into the wall, breathing through my fury. And my fear. Because the bomb has started ticking. I’m running out of time, and it isn’t only me I need to worry about now.

I flinch when I feel a hand slide onto my shoulder. “Your whose end?” Beau asks quietly.

“Yours. Mine. His.” I clench my eyes closed and push away from the wall, turning to face her. I’m shaken. For the first time, my nemesis has me shook. And so has the woman before me. The pregnancy test flashes through my mind. It has to be playing on hers too. “Maybe your ex’s,” I add.

She retracts her hand like I could have burst into flames. “What?” she whispers.

“When were you last with him?” I ask, sounding harsher than I meant to. But, again, The Bear and his bombshell isn’t the only blow I’m dealing with.

Her round eyes stare at me in disbelief. “I assume you mean intimately.”

“Yes, I mean intimately.” She was at his place. Did he talk her into his bed? My gaze falls to her stomach, and I stare hard, my eyes burning. “When?”

“That’s none of your fucking business,” she retorts, stepping away.

I finally blink, dampening my dry eyes, trying to see straight. “None of my business?” I ask, stunned. “None of my fucking business?” I grab her uninjured hand, and all but manhandle her up the stairs.

“What the fuck, James?” she yells, unable to even try and pry my grip away. So she yanks and pulls instead.

“Shut up, Beau.” I turn and dip, getting her gently on my shoulder. “Don’t wriggle or you’ll hurt yourself.

“James!” she shouts as I cart her the rest of the way, taking her into the bathroom. “I’m not having another bath.”

“I didn’t say you were,” I place her down. “Wait,” I order, marching out of the bathroom. I go to my room, find the pregnancy test buried in my pile of clothes, and stomp back. “You’re doing this.” I hold it up and watch as her face falls and she retreats. But she’s silent, just staring at the harmless box. Harmless? Good God, this box could finish us both.

Enraged by that thought, I tear it open and slam it on the vanity unit. “So I’ll ask again.” I fold my arms over my chest like some kind of idiotic, proud twat. “When were you last intimate with your ex? Or any other man, for that matter?”

She backs up, her eyes still rooted on the test, until she meets the wall. Then she slowly slides down the tile until she’s a small bundle on the floor. “Nearly two years,” she says quietly, refusing to look at me. “I haven’t been with any men since Ollie.”

Something inside lifts. Stress. And doesn’t that speak volumes?

“Only you.” Her eyes drop to her feet, ashamed. She’s not refusing to look at me now. She simply can’t face me. “I’m sorry,” she whispers.

Sorry? She’s sorry? I look at the ceiling, my cheeks ballooning. Maybe she is, but never as sorry as me. “I thought we were protected.”