Wicked Ever After (Wicked & Devoted #2) - Shayla Black Page 0,66
I’ll step aside and let him take my place as your husband. Otherwise…I think you and I better figure out how to spend our futures together, without the people we love.”
Chapter Eight
Saturday, December 13
One month later
A month—fucking gone. And One-Mile had stepped onto US soil at DFW Airport less than two hours ago with one top-of-mind focus: seeing Brea ASAP.
Since he was in desperate times, that called for desperate measures. After yesterday’s shit show, his situation had leapfrogged over merely wretched and landed squarely in last-gasp, holy-fuck land. He needed to regroup—fast. But he’d never imagined he’d be doing it in this swanky suburban mansion.
When he’d exited the plane, the invite to this shindig, along with Cutter’s RSVP plus one, had been sitting in his inbox. That had made his decision for him. Normally, he hated gatherings like this, but if Brea was here, a mere forty-five minutes away, instead of in Louisiana, a distant six hours east, he’d attend the fucking party with bells on.
So he ambled into Callie Mackenzie’s massive kitchen, decked out with festive holiday decorations, feeling severely out of place. As he scoured the room for Brea, cheerful party conversations fell to whispers, then died to a hush. Everyone glanced around, trying to pinpoint the source of the unrest, including Cutter Bryant, who stood alone.
One-Mile wasn’t shocked when all eyes fell on him.
Surprise!
He knew a lot of the people at this upscale Christmas party. Half were EM Security employees and their dates, as well as the operatives and significant others from their sister firm, Oracle. Clearly, no one had expected him to show.
Jack Cole, Deke Trenton, and the Oracle gang knew of him. Likely they’d heard he was a lowlife, a rapist, a horrible human being, and all that jazz. He really didn’t give two shits. Since the EM guys all thought he was in Mexico, they looked at him as if they’d seen a ghost. And in some ways, One-Mile felt as if he’d been dead since he’d left a month ago. But that wasn’t important. Right now, he needed to have a few critical conversations. And lay eyes on Brea.
Where the hell was she?
When he gave the room another visual sweep, he still didn’t see her. She should be here as Cutter’s date, but the Boy Scout looked stag. What the hell? Hadn’t she come? Was something wrong?
His agitation—and his blood pressure—ratcheted up.
Cutter met his probing stare. One-Mile glared, trying not to resent the guy…but failed. It wasn’t Bryant’s fault that he was free to spend most of his time with Brea while One-Mile had to hide in the hole he’d dug for himself that was looking more and more like a grave.
Bryant’s contempt flared back at him from across the room as if he’d sent it via flamethrower. So much for their truce. Sure, they’d come to an understanding last month that Brea and her safety mattered above all else…but that didn’t mean they would ever be pals.
The one thing that saved One-Mile’s sanity? Cutter didn’t appear worried, look guilty, or seem as if he was in mourning. Hopefully that meant Brea was all right, simply absent for some benign reason. But he intended to find out pronto.
Before he could cross the room to interrogate the SOB, Logan’s wife, Tara, and Callie Mackenzie appeared in front of him with cautious smiles, as if they worried he might bare his teeth and attack.
“Welcome, Mr. Walker.” The brunette flashed him her hostess smile, blue eyes bright with welcome.
He didn’t really believe it, but he gave her points for trying. “Thank you, Mrs. Mackenzie.” He glanced at Logan’s pretty redheaded wife. “Mrs. Edgington.”
“Glad you could make it,” Tara said.
Despite that whopping lie and what he suspected was their disquiet at being so near him, Callie threaded her arm through his. Instantly, he felt daggers in his back, and they weren’t Cutter’s. A glance over his shoulder proved both her husband, former FBI agent Sean Mackenzie, and her Dominant lover, Mitchell Thorpe, scrutinized his every move.
“Don’t pay attention to them,” Callie encouraged as she guided him to a bursting table. “They’re always overprotective. Most everyone has already eaten, but the buffet is still out, so please make yourself a plate. Let me know if you need anything else.”
What he needed was Brea, but Callie and Tara weren’t who he needed to ask. Still, he tried not to look like an absolute bastard.
Tara handed him a napkin and some plastic utensils. “Would you like a beer?”