Winter's Woman (The Wicked Winters #9) - Scarlett Scott Page 0,48

a means of saving himself. “But I would appreciate it if you hear me speak before putting a ball in my back.”

“Less trouble to kill you now,” Wilmore returned.

Also an excellent point, but Devil wasn’t about to admit that.

“If you kill me, the Winters will have their vengeance,” he tried next, for this, too, was truth. His siblings were loyal. They were family. They were all they had. And they would—every last one of them, from Dom to Gen and Gavin or Demon and Blade—give up their lives to save one another. “There will be nowhere for you to hide that they will not find you and destroy you. Is that what you want, Wilmore? Dead men can’t get rich.”

The man’s pause was telling.

He was contemplating Devil’s words. Weighing his choices.

“What the fuck are you doin’ in my ’ell?” Wilmore spat.

“What the fuck were you doing having your men shoot at my brother’s sister-in-law?” he countered.

How odd it seemed to refer to Evie in such bland terms. As if she had no relation to him, as if he scarcely knew her. When, in truth, he knew her. He knew her lips beneath his, her sweet curves, her scent, her taste, how to make her come undone.

He bit his already abused lower lip hard enough to draw forth more blood. An excellent distraction. He could not afford to be weak in this moment. He had to be strong and firm, to deflect and defend.

“Sister-in-law?” Wilmore asked then.

“Lady Evangeline Saltisford,” he elaborated. “Daughter to the Duke of Linross. One of your lackeys shot at her once, nearly wounding Viscount Denton. And on the second try, he shot Lady Evangeline herself.”

“Fuck.”

Wilmore’s low curse said more than any other response could have.

Understanding dawned on Devil. “You never intended anyone to be shot, did you? I am going to step away from your weapon and turn to face you at the count of five.”

“You can count to five, can you?” Wilmore taunted. “Thought you was a simpleton.”

Devil clenched his jaw, doing his best to ignore the old hurts. “Aye. I can count.”

He barely refrained from adding you worthless arsehole to his response.

And then, he did as he had warned. What else had he to lose? He had already lost Evie. There was precious little left. He moved, holding his breath as he went, at any moment expecting to feel the blast of Wilmore’s gun lodging in his head or spine.

Instead, he spun, facing Wilmore and an ominous double-barrel flintlock.

Still, he was not dead. There was that.

“Stay where you are, Winter,” the other man warned.

Devil had no doubt Wilmore would shoot him dead without a hint of conscience. However, he also knew men of Wilmore’s ilk. The bastard was likely fretting over Devil’s words, wondering what would befall him if he dared to kill a Winter. His concern for his own worthless hide was trumping all else.

“Consider what will happen to you if I am injured,” he reminded his opponent. “Or worse.”

“Not sure I give a damn about what will happen either way,” Wilmore sneered.

A flash of movement caught Devil’s attention then. By God, he had never been more relieved to see Jasper Sutton. Presuming Sutton would aid him, that was. Hoping Wilmore had not taken note of Devil’s traveling gaze, he jerked his stare back to the man with the gun pointed at his heart.

“You will give a damn when my brother is slitting your throat,” he told Wilmore smoothly.

Meanwhile, Sutton took his position behind Wilmore, raising his own weapon.

“Eh. Might be worth killing you to bring old Dom Winter out of ’iding. Married a fancy duke’s daughter and thinks ’imself too good for the rookeries, does ’e?” Wilmore taunted. “Mayhap spilling your worthless blood will get ’is attention.”

“What is it you hope to gain?” he asked, attempting to drag out the moment, give Sutton enough time to act.

Wilmore grinned. “Power. Coin. What does anyone want? I’ve had enough chatter, Winter. What did you come ’ere for?”

Vengeance.

To make certain no harm would ever come to Evie again.

“To speak with you,” he said, and that was not entirely a falsehood.

“Not in the mood.” Wilmore cocked his head. “Get ready to cock up your toes—”

A feral cry interrupted Wilmore’s words, stealing his attention. He jerked.

Everything unfolded in a hazy blur. Shots rang out. A blazing pain seared through Devil’s shoulder. He reached for his own hidden weapon, but in the next moment, he took a vicious blow to the head. Everything went black.

His last thoughts were of