“Why didn’t you go to the police?”

“We both know the police are on Godfrey’s payroll,” she huffs. “I was going to take them down myself. I’d spent that month planning. I knew when Camden was going to be in California, because I’d listened to them talking about their plans when they were at the apartment they locked me in. While I was sitting in the bedroom, flipping channels, they were in the living room, planning their next drug-trafficking escapade. With a little help from a local motorcycle club called Cutthroat Bandits, who had beef with Godfrey and his wiseguys, I not only had the when, but also the where. A warehouse in Stockton. The Cutthroat Bandits wanted nothing more than to kill the three villains in my life, get them out of the way. And me? I paid them every single penny I managed to put my claws back on from that British Virgin Islands’ account to help me.”

Fuck my life. She really was planning a bloodbath.

“Camden, Sebastian and Godfrey came to the warehouse where they were selling drugs to a local Latino gang. I showed up with the Cutthroat Bandits. We waited behind bushes and trees until the Latinos left, and the minute the loud rumble of their Harleys drove out of earshot, we climbed out of the bushes with semi-automatic weapons pointing at them. We walked in a straight line, cornering them back in the warehouse. You should’ve seen the look on their faces when they saw me pointing a barrel straight at Godfrey’s balls.

“The Bandits did the talking. They said that the streets of NorCal don’t belong to some British dude. They belonged to them. But all that time. . .all three men stared at me. Fire broke between the two gangs—Godfrey’s soldiers and the Bandits—but when I saw the three cowards running up to the roof to hide from the bullets, I charged after them.

“I got to Godfrey first. He was the slowest of the three. Caught him pacing back like a cornered animal. I had a loaded gun in my hand, and that’s how I found out, Beat, that I’m a switcher. I inched closer. My smile was manic. ‘Time,’ I repeated his own words. ‘Moves differently according to circumstances.’ I took a few more steps in his direction, and he couldn’t do a thing. He was weaponless. Weak.

“‘But sometimes, all the time in the world can end with just…a little…push.’ I pushed him from the rooftop, and he landed inside a trash container. Next in line was Seb, who charged up to the roof to try and save his boss. I pushed Seb down and he landed on Godfrey. I didn’t hear a sound from Godfrey, so I presumed him dead, but just in case, I shot in their general direction. I had shit aim, and it was dark.” She hisses a breath.

“And then?” My fists clutch. I’m itching to kill these bastards more than she is.

“I called the police and ran away. The place was full of drugs, but empty of Camden, who managed to escape. I grabbed a few bags of God-knows-what, knowing that I had no money at this point and that I had to make a quick buck after the deal I struck with the MC. The police arrived and saw everything. Godfrey and Seb were still alive, and they were at a crime scene with enough drugs to last the whole f*cking 60’s. That’s how Godfrey and Seb ended up in prison, and that’s why they’ll never rest until I’m dead.”

There’s no point asking why they didn’t rat her out. They wanted her for themselves.

I know what I need to do. What my conscience begs me to do. This day has been full of good and bad. I killed bad people, and now I have the chance to redeem myself by saving a good one. But it’s not that simple. My neck is on the line here, too.

And the fact that I want to f*ck the shit out of her? Another complication that can backfire in my face. Do I want to help her or do I simply want her?

“Go to bed, Pea,” I order dryly, walking back to my room, shoulders slumped.

Things just got a whole lot more complex.

Thanks a f*cking lot, Country Club.

A platinum-blonde secretary in fancy clothes and with enough makeup to layer a f*cking cake greets me behind a massive reception desk made out of deep oak. The title Royal Realty is splashed in golden letters over the fancy wood.

There is nothing royal about the * I’m about to confront.

“Good afternoon, Sir. How can I hel—” I don’t even spare the woman a second glance. I simply charge through the double doors straight into God’s office. I tell myself that it’s not about Prescott. He’s been jerking me around for far too long. I need answers.

The woman shoots up behind me, slowed by her heels and fears. Yeah, I wouldn’t mess with me either.

“Sir! You can’t go in there. Mr. Archer’s in a meeting!”

I can see that for myself. I’m standing on the threshold, watching Godfrey behind his desk, two suited men sitting in front of him, in the middle of a heated discussion, which I just broke. The men twist their heads in my direction, and God stares me down like I’m a dog he’s about to smack with a rolled newspaper.

He’s lucky he has guests. If he were alone, I would’ve made a nice rug out of his dead body by now for what he did.

“Welcome, Nathaniel. I don’t recall you making an appointment to see me today.” He sounds composed and tranquil. But his hands are dancing. Pupils darting everywhere.

“A word,” I grit, my eyes bleeding anger. Every second I stand here instead of killing him is a f*cking testament of my strength. The secretary’s still behind me, and I watch her in the edge of my periphery making hysterical signals to Godfrey with her hands and mouth, telling him she tried to stop me. Godfrey nods curtly, then turns to the men.