Stolen Life (Beauty in the Stolen 2)

My stomach clenches. They’re not locals. The blond one has a square face and green eyes. The one with the dark hair bears a striking resemblance to Ian. Two pairs of eyes fix on me with hostility. There are only two people in the world they can be—Ian’s gang mates. I’m willing to bet all sixty percent of the heart function I have left that the one with the dark hair is Ian’s brother, Leon.

The dark-haired man, who has the same brown eyes as Ian, points a remote at the television. The sound dies, and the screen goes black. Both men stare at me in silence as Ian drags me behind him to the bar.

I hang back, tugging on Ian’s hold. I have no interest in meeting them. I don’t want to know who they are, but it’s too late. Ian pulls me under his arm when we stop in front of them and says, “Leon, Ruben, this is Cas.”

Neither of them offers a greeting, not that I expected them to.

“So,” Leon says, “you’re here to stay.”

“Not by choice,” I tell him.

Ian gives my hip a warning squeeze. “Lunch is ready. We’ll wait outside.”

From the way Leon’s knuckles turn white around the remote, he’s not keen on sharing lunch with me, but he doesn’t argue when Ian steers me back outside.

“They don’t want me here,” I say as Ian seats me.

He takes the chair next to me. “I don’t need their permission.”

Surely, he can see this living arrangement isn’t going to work out.

Leon and Ruben exit just as Shona arrives with the first dishes. She places grilled lambchops, baked potatoes, pumpkin mash, and creamed spinach on the table.

Leon and Ruben attack the lambchops while Ian puts a serving of the potatoes, pumpkin, and spinach on my plate.

Ruben eyes my food over a forkful of potato.

“Don’t you eat meat?” Leon asks.

“She’s vegetarian,” Ian answers, a tightness in his tone.

Leon shrugs. “More for us.”

Ian narrows his eyes on his brother. Ruben shovels the pumpkin in his mouth and reaches for more.

Under the table, Ian splays his fingers over my knee. “They’re not used to the company of a lady.”

At the quiet reprimand, Ruben and Leon fix their gazes on their plates and eat at a slower pace. No one says a word for the remainder of the meal.

When Shona returns to take the empty dishes, I offer to help and escape to the kitchen with our plates and cutlery. The kitchen smells of pumpkin and cinnamon. The room is spacious and well-equipped. A double gas stove with ovens takes up one corner. The walls are lined with shelves carrying all the tools one would expect in a hotel kitchen. A door on the side gives access to a pantry.

Despite the dishwasher, Shona tells me to rinse the plates and let them soak in soapy water.

“I don’t trust those machines to wash clean,” she says, wiping her hands on an apron before leaving to clear the rest of the table.

Ruben enters just as I’m about to exit. He stops in the frame, blocking the doorway with his body. My pulse quickens at the quiet threat.

“Excuse me,” I say, but he doesn’t budge.

He regards me like I’m a fly that has landed in his food. “Why are you here?”

I hold his gaze squarely. “You know why I’m here.”

He takes a step into the room, making me back one up. “I’m not a man of many words, little girl, so listen carefully. I’ll only say this once. If you fuck with Ian, you fuck with us.” He takes another step. “If you’re spying for the cops, Ian will kill you, no matter how much he likes your pussy, and I’ll be first in line to pull the trigger.” He bends down until his face is inches from mine. “Is that clear?”

“Like crystal,” I say sweetly, ducking under his arm and hurrying back to the table.

Ian is dangerous, no doubt about that, but Ruben sends a shiver of repulsion over me. I have a feeling his kind of darkness is the cruel kind, the kind that gets off on people’s pain.

“Everything all right?” Ian asks, scrutinizing my face.

I give him a tight smile. “Perfect.”

He pops a cigar into his mouth and chews on the end as he watches me.

Leon and Ruben excuse themselves to go fishing, inviting Ian to join them. He declines, stating he’s got other plans.

After coffee, he tells me to follow him. We go to a covered boma on the side of the main building where nuts, bolts, and other bits and pieces of machinery are laid out on a canvas.

He leaves the cigar on a toolbox and stares at the engine of a generator. He’s patient, taking his time to do his visual evaluation.

“What’s the matter with it?” I ask.

“Rusted slip ring,” he muses. “But when I put all the parts back together, it didn’t start.”