Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 134057 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 670(@200wpm)___ 536(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 134057 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 670(@200wpm)___ 536(@250wpm)___ 447(@300wpm)
That’s what his dad said anyway.
And he tended to agree with him.
The silence between him and Trevor lasted for half a beer. Again, not unusual. They didn’t have to talk, unlike his wife and daughters, like his son Will, who only spoke in grunts, Trevor was comfortable in silence. As was Liam.
But he wasn’t silent because he was comfortable.
He was silent because he was nervous as fuck.
“You sweat any more bullets I’ll be able to arm myself for the next year,” Trevor commented.
Liam snapped his head over to him.
“You don’t have to be nervous, son, you want my approval, you got it,” he continued, taking a pull of his beer.
Liam struggled to recover. “What?”
Trevor rolled his eyes in an almost perfect impression of his daughter. “Know you’re here to ask for my blessing to marry Caroline. You’ve got it. Had it since the day you walked in, looked me in the eye shook my hand and then looked to my little girl like you’d lay down your fucking life for her. You’re probably gonna get shit from Aggie about how young you both are. And you are young. Too young for some things. Maybe this. But I don’t think so. ‘Cause of the way you looked at Caroline the first day you stepped foot in this house. Not a look of a sixteen-year-old kid. It was the look of a man. A man I know will protect my daughter from hurt.”
It wasn’t a question, but it was. Liam nodded rapidly. “I’d rather die than see her hurt.”
Trevor chuckled. “Well don’t go and do that, that’s a surefire way to destroy her. But you treat her good, we’re not gonna have problems. I already consider you my son.”
“I’m gonna treat her good,” Liam promised.
“I know,” Trevor agreed. He finished his beer. “Now you can relax. Probably gonna be your last chance for a while.” Trevor winked.
Liam laughed. And he leaned back. Relaxed. On the porch with a cold beer and the warm evening sun. And the knowledge he had forever with Caroline.
A clap on his shoulder had him pulling out his piece.
Swiss grinned at the Glock pointed at his heart. “Good morning to you too, sunshine.” He leaned over and snatched Caroline’s coffee, sipping it before he could stop him.
Jagger stiffened, forcing himself to pocket his piece when he really wanted to empty the clip into his brother for sipping on Caroline’s fucking coffee cup.
Swiss screwed up his face. “Willy Wonka shit in here? Didn’t take you for a sweet tooth. Man with as much bitter as you couldn’t possibly imbibe that much sugar and survive,” he teased.
Jagger gritted his teeth. He still hadn’t forgiven the fucker for what he’d done, taking Caroline to the basement. Even though he was just following orders. Hansen was the one responsible.
But somehow it seemed so much fucking easier to be mad at the soldier than the General.
They were easier to dispatch at least.
Jagger snatched the cup back. It was still warm.
“It’s Caroline’s,” he growled. “You sip from her cup again, I’ll take you down to the basement for a trip that will not get you off.”
Swiss was fucked in many ways. The main being he got off on torture. Like got the fuck off. He didn’t hurt women. Not without their permission.
Mommy issues up the ass, that one.
And all the other issues in the world.
Swiss grinned wider. “Ah, makes sense. So what’s the deal with you and the rat anyway?”
No one knew about him and Caroline’s history but Jagger and Claw. He was surprised that big mouthed fucker hadn’t told anyone, especially Swiss. They were tight. Both previously Nomad. Maybe that’s why they connected, because they belonged in the Sons of Templar, but nowhere at the same time.
Or maybe it was because they were both depraved motherfuckers.
“She’s not a rat,” Jagger gritted out, his piece heavy and hot in his jeans, begging to be used.
Swiss shrugged. “Seems not. Yet at least. I get it. She’s got a good stomach for blood.”
He said it in a way that a man might comment on a woman’s ass or tits. Because that’s what it was to Swiss, what he found attractive, a woman’s ability to withstand and witness torture, apparently.
“Yeah, she does,” Jagger agreed reluctantly, thinking of her blank, jaded face in the basement. His cock hardened in his jeans.
Jesus, he was just as bad as Swiss. He was getting off on torture too.
Swiss clapped him on the shoulder. “This is gonna be a fucking mess, isn’t it?”
He wanted to hate the fucker, but there was an acceptance, a support in his words. “You think we’re not already in a fucking mess?” he shot back. “At war with a man we can’t touch, can’t find and most likely can’t fucking kill.”
Swiss shrugged again. “You can kill anyone. No matter how high up anyone is, or in his case, low down, they all die the same. Bleed the same. We’ll get him. It’ll be messy, sure.” Swiss nodded his head to the hall where Jagger’s room was. Where Caroline was. “That’s messier.” He didn’t wait for him to speak. Or shoot him. “Speaking of women who make messes. Rosie’s at the warehouse.”