A Discovery of Secrets and Fate (Chronicles of the Stone Veil 2)

It was time for her to remember he was in charge, and she must obey the rules.

Just as Finley was stepping into the condo before him, she nonchalantly said, “You know, you really do worry too much. I obviously—”

Her words cut off as her jaw clacked shut because Carrick had her by the arm, then slung her across the foyer. It wasn’t forceful enough to hurt, but it did make her stumble several feet before she gained her balance. Mainly, it made it clear that he was pissed.

She righted herself, hitching her backpack up over her shoulder before whirling on him. “What the hell?”

Those were the only words she got out as Carrick advanced on her, long strides that carried him right into her personal space and had her scurrying backward to get away.

His anger fueling his steps, Carrick backed her across the living area toward the kitchen and right into a wall that had her stopping dead in her tracks. Finley hit with a thud, her backpack slipping off her shoulder, then dropping to the floor.

Carrick didn’t stop, though. He moved in close, placing both palms on the wall just above her head. He caged her in with both his body and his fury. Carrick got a tingle of satisfaction that there was a tinge of fear in her expression because now maybe she would take him seriously.

Dipping his face close to hers, Carrick rumbled low. “You foolish, impetuous, idiotic girl.”

“Woman,” Finley clarified indignantly.

“You act like but a girl,” he retorted, his voice never rising but becoming far more dangerous in tone. “Taking risks like your stupid stunt in the bar with that incubus.”

Finley’s eyes rounded in surprise, her cheeks going red.

“Yeah… I know you were trying to tap into powers rather than doing your fucking job to let us know you’d tagged the incubus. It was dangerous trying to manipulate powers you know nothing about, and it put you into further danger. What would have happened had we not gotten to you in time?”

The question needed no answer. They both knew she’d be dead.

“But you did get to me in time,” she pointed out, not willing to back down despite the fact he could see she was still intimidated.

Clearly not enough.

One of Carrick’s hands moved from the wall to wrap around the front of her throat, and her mouth pressed shut. He didn’t need to squeeze as Finley was more than aware of his strength and how easily he could snap her neck.

Not that he had any intention of that.

No, he merely enjoyed having her captive and listening to him without any further interruptions.

Dipping his face even closer to hers, he reminded her of something she should never forget. “You’re in danger right this very moment, Miss Porter, because sometimes it seems better to just let you die and let the whole world burn.”

Carrick expected that to bank the flames of her anger, but instead, he was caught off guard by the flash of pain he saw in those exquisitely unique eyes of gold, green, and blue.

“Then why don’t you?” she whispered. He felt her breath across his lips, which was a torture he couldn’t handle, so he pulled his head back just a bit. “It’s clear you hate me. Why don’t you just do it yourself and get it over with?”

Carrick couldn’t stop the flinch of surprise because she wasn’t being obstinate. She was being truthful.

His hand loosened from her throat and fell away. “I don’t hate you.”

“But you do,” Finley declared vehemently. She squatted, causing Carrick to back up a few more steps to watch her. After opening her backpack on the floor, she pulled out her sketchbook and removed what looked like a torn and crumpled drawing.

Straightening, she held it up for him to see and he was shocked that it was the charcoal portrait she had done of him. He had studied it that night he broke into her house and searched for clues.

She had clearly meant to destroy it at some point as it was torn free of the book, smeared and crushed, but still unmistakably him. “This was you… the moment you first laid eyes on me,” she snarled.

Carrick studied the drawing, remembering that moment vividly. While his portrait was slightly smeared, it still accurately portrayed what Finley thought she saw.

“That’s hate in your expression, Carrick. From the start, it was there.”

Not true, Carrick thought. She’d clearly missed the surprise, the confusion, and then the despair.

But what she recorded in her drawing wasn’t hate.

Never, ever hate.

Feeling empty of any emotion and devoid of any desire to continue this discussion, Carrick ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “We need to talk about Faere.”

Moving past Finley, he stepped up to the recessed butler’s pantry that served as a minibar and poured two glasses of bourbon.