Wicked Ever After (Wicked & Devoted 2)

“I don’t believe you.”

One-Mile scowled. “I don’t care.”

But he did. If Montilla’s men had been watching, how much did they know about Brea? About the two of them together?

“I think you are lying. But perhaps I am mistaken.” Montilla sneered. “After all, who would love you?”

“I could ask you the same. I know you took your wife from her little impoverished village at sixteen and forced her to marry you. Is it any wonder she left you the first chance she got?” Then he waved his hand in the air as he finally kicked off the water that had now risen to the prick’s chin. “You know what? This conversation is boring me. I think it’s time to put an end to this.”

“You will not kill me.” Montilla’s sneer was full of bravado, but he didn’t actually look convinced.

One-Mile picked up the thick lead pipe he’d found in the garage and thumped it against his palm. “Say nighty-night.”

Then he swung and hit the asshole on the back of his head with just enough force to knock him temporarily unconscious. He drained the tub, carted the battery away, extracted the burner phone he’d procured earlier, and dialed the only number he had pre-programmed.

“St. Louis Police Department, Narcotics Division.”

“Do you know who Emilo Montilla is?”

“Who is this?” the cop asked.

One-Mile didn’t answer. “Do you know who I’m talking about?”

“Who doesn’t?”

“Write this address down.” He rattled the information off to the detective. “Montilla broke into that house. I put a stop to him. You’ll find him facedown and unconscious in the tub. Hurry…”

“Who are you?”

One-Mile hung up and hauled ass out of the house, hopping into Valeria’s abandoned car. He was already heading for the freeway when he heard the sirens.

One-Mile scrapped his plan to drive Valeria’s car to her in Florida, then fly home on Sunday.

In case Montilla could somehow make good on his threat, he needed to warn Brea now. It couldn’t wait.

Through the thick of night, he forced the little compact down the highway at speeds not intended for this small engine, refusing to stop for food or drink. The trip that should have taken over ten hours, he managed in less than eight.

At ten on Saturday morning, he screeched up in front of the preacher’s house. He feared Brea would be at the salon, already doing someone’s hair. But her car still sat in the driveway.

Thank fuck.

As he yanked the keys from the little import’s ignition, the front door opened. He hauled ass up the walkway just as Brea emerged and headed for her vehicle, staring at her phone.

The sight of her alive and in one piece sent visceral relief sluicing through his body. He’d fucking missed her like he’d been gone for a year, not nine damn days. He visually inhaled her, but that only made him hungrier.

She’d dressed in a billowy gray sweater and black leggings he’d love to peel off her. She’d piled her hair in a haphazard knot. Even under the layers of makeup she didn’t usually wear, she looked too pale. Almost sick.

Though he preferred her bare faced and bare assed, right now he was just so fucking glad to see her.

“Brea!”

Her head snapped up. When she spotted him, she stopped short and blinked. “Pierce, you’re back. When did you—”

“Just now.” He closed the remaining distance between them and took her shoulders. “Is your dad home?”

“No. He’s at the church.”

“Good.” Without warning, One-Mile shoved her into the house, crowding her against the adjacent wall with his body, then locked the door. He stared out the glass opening. No one had followed him; he’d been watching. He breathed a sigh of relief.

It felt so good to be close to Brea, but he could only afford a few minutes with her right now. He had to keep his head. “I need to talk to you. It can’t wait.”

“Okay. I-I need to talk to you, too. There’s something you should—”

“Let me go first.” He didn’t have the luxury of being polite.

Frustration bubbled. Why had he hopped on his high fucking horse and decided it was his responsibility to make sure Valeria lived so that Baby Jorge grew up with his mom?

You know the answer to that.

But why the hell hadn’t he simply captured the drug lord and immediately called the police?

Because, dumb ass, you couldn’t have your pound of flesh, so you insisted on stealing an ounce or two. Way to go.

Now, he was paying for his stupidity. No matter how much he ached for Brea, he couldn’t be with her until he knew Montilla was behind bars for good—or dead.

“Listen, Brea. I hate like hell to do this, but something has happened.” One-Mile tried not to terrify her. “I can’t see you for a while.”

“I know you just got back. This can wait. My weekends are always busy. In fact, I’m late for a client now, but—”