Red stained the human’s cheekbones. “Shut up.”
Blair noted the white mark on Myra’s third finger. “Divorced, huh? I suppose you couldn’t have been an easy wife. Controlling, I’d wager. Definitely needy. Overly critical, too, I suspect. I’ll bet you were always finding faults in your ex. And most likely unable to celebrate his successes because it made you feel threatened in comparison.”
“Shut up,” Myra snarled.
“He probably felt like he was constantly walking on eggshells around you. I’m sure all that bitterness you carry didn’t help matters.” Blair narrowed her eyes. “Was it before or after the divorce that you decided to go so heavy on the Botox and plastic surgery? That nose, wow, it’s so narrow I don’t even know how you can breathe through it. It’s got to be a medical marvel.”
“Shut up.”
Blair offered her a sad smile. “You probably thought your face lift, reconstructed nose, and boob job would make you feel better about yourself. They didn’t, though, did they? Of course they didn’t. Because in truth, it isn’t your surface that you find so ugly, it’s what’s inside. Though, to be real, you’re not much of a looker, are you?”
Snarling again, Myra jerked toward Blair. Maybe she’d have done more, maybe she wouldn’t have. They’d never know, because Bailey’s mamba—who’d climbed onto the desk while the human was distracted—let out an unholy hiss and lurched toward Myra. The bitch jumped in her seat, and Blair could hear the woman’s heartbeat gallop like crazy in her chest.
Blair hummed. “I don’t think she likes you, Myra. But then … does anyone? Really?”
The human’s nostrils flared, but she kept her eyes on the mamba. “Fuck you.”
“Hoping to cling to your dignity,” Blair sensed. “Admirable. Also impossible because, well, Bailey’s venom is gonna put you through the ringer. We’re talking stomach cramps, diarrhea, vomiting galore. You’ll soon be sitting in a puddle of your own piss, puke, and shit. Are you much of a sobber? I hope so. It’ll make the photos look even better. Because yes, I’ll be taking pictures. Lots and lots of ’em. Maybe even a video. Yeah, that would work.”
“Or you could just answer our questions and suffer a swift execution,” Luke cut in, his voice holding no trace of the amusement that skipped down their bond. “We want the name of the person who tried hiring poachers to get themselves some white tiger fur, and we want the records of other poach-hiring clients. More, we’ll do absolutely anything to get those things. Anything. To you, that is. If you want to suffer for a while, we can make that happen. But I promise you’ll regret not being straight with us right from the outset. I know Chester Wilkins sure was. He and his friends died hard, if you’re interested. So, what’ll it be?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Gathered around the Alpha pair’s dining table a short while later, they all stared down at the pile of records they’d swiped from a hidden safe in Myra’s office. She’d given up its location fairly quickly, in addition to the many answers they’d wanted. That hadn’t surprised Luke—he’d sensed that her bravado was as paper-thin as the self-confidence that had shriveled the more his mate toyed with it to rattle her. A spectacle his cat had rather enjoyed.
Rubbing at his nape, Luke once more read the name of the asshole who’d recently contacted Myra wanting to get his hands on the head and fur of a white tiger shifter. “If I couldn’t see the proof for myself, I’d wonder if the bitch fed us a bunch of bullshit.”
Zayne Whiteford wasn’t a regular human. The child actor was now a pop singer with a boyish face and a lily-white image that appealed to teenage girls everywhere. Clearly, he wasn’t quite as innocent as he seemed. Only twenty-four years old, Zayne had hired poachers through Myra on several occasions, an apparent collector of shifter fur and heads.
“I wonder what all his fans would think if they knew about this sick shit,” mused Blair, her eyes flashing. “Celebrity or not, he needs to be dealt with. I know it’s not easy to make someone so famous quite simply disappear, but …”
“He’ll be dealt with,” Tate vowed.
“It’s going to be practically impossible for us to get to him right now,” said Bailey, looking down at the screen of her cell. “He’s on tour, which means he’s hopping from hotel to hotel when he’s not sleeping on his tour bus. He has a massive security detail.”
Behind the mamba, Deke peered over her shoulder to glance at her phone. “He’s also currently in New York, which isn’t exactly a short drive away.”
Tate began to pace. “When does his tour end?”
“Not for another two months,” replied Bailey, pocketing her cell.
Aspen swore, sinking her hands into her hair and leaning back against Camden. “We can’t wait that long to deal with Zayne. He won’t be worried on hearing that Selfridge House burned down with Myra still in it, because he won’t think it has anything to do with him; won’t worry that his dirty secret is no longer so secret. Therein lies the problem. He’ll simply go to another broker, and so Camden will still be at risk of being taken. We need to nip this in the bud.”