Defiant Queen (Mount Trilogy #2)

Not so, because when that fireplace spins and my library comes into view, I know I made a massive mistake thinking this refuge would insulate me from what I’m feeling.

All I can see is her. The first night she stood inside these walls, she pulled off that hideous trench coat to reveal her fuckable curves with that ridiculous henna tattoo, and the image is burned in my brain.

She held herself like a queen. Like a woman who could handle the intensity of the king that I have declared myself to be.

No weaknesses, I remind myself again.

My fingers curl into fists, and I’m tempted to put one through the wall. For the first time in longer than I can remember, doubt taunts me.

Maintain control. That’s what I do, and I can’t let Keira Kilgore change that.

I turn toward the table holding the decanters of liquor and reach for my favorite, only to still my hand in midair.

It’s a Seven Sinners whiskey, one I’ve had my associates appropriate from the distillery’s off-site storehouses upon my request, because it’s not yet available for sale to the public, except in small batches in the restaurant atop Seven Sinners Distillery, and I’m not a man willing to be denied. I jerk my hand away from the Spirit of New Orleans and reach for the Scotch. After all, my name comes from the Scots. Lachlan Mount sounded like a man who demanded power, and I was fifteen when I chose it.

For the two years I lived on the streets after ending that miserable fuck Jerry’s life, I didn’t have a name. No one could have cared less about another runaway. The rare nights I slept in shelters, I used a different fake name every time. I lied. I cheated. I stole.

I still do all those things, and what’s more, I do them without remorse.

I am not a good man. My soul is black. My heart is stone. My reputation isn’t legend or myth, but a collection of facts.

If there were a scale to determine the purity of a person, I would send one side crashing to the ground with the weight of my sins, and laugh while I watched.

I’m going to hell. I know that with full certainty, but there’s a long list of people I’ll send there ahead of me.

Keira Kilgore is the opposite. She’s pure. Innocent. Naive as fuck. She still thinks everyone plays by the rules, and good judgment paves the road to success. She’s wrong, but she would never believe me. I never should have brought her into my world, but I’m selfish enough not to care. Selfish enough to keep her here.

“I don’t want this. I didn’t ask for this, and I will never submit willingly. I swear it on everything that’s holy.”

She said those words as she stood naked before me, and her body betrayed her. I made a liar out of her too because every time I took her, she was more than willing. She wanted it as badly as I did.

I swear I can smell her in this room over the leather, old books, and cigar smoke, and it makes me want to stalk back to her room, rip open the door, and make a liar out of her again.

“Don’t you dare fucking touch me right now. Or ever again.”

She should know better than to throw down the gauntlet with a man like me. I win every time.

I clench my teeth and force myself to walk toward a bookshelf like there’s a chance in hell I’m going to read one of the volumes on it.

A whoosh signals the swivel of the fireplace entrance, and I spin around. I almost expect an enraged red-haired goddess, come to take me to task again. Which, in my filthy mind, would end with her bent over the arm of one of my chairs, me fucking her with her hands pinned behind her back.

But it’s not. It’s J, my second-in-command.

“We’ve got an issue, a sensitive one. I’d handle it myself, but I know you’ll want input.”

“What?” I ask, glad for the distraction.

“Lieutenant to one of the cartel jefes has already been warned once about the way he’s handling his girl for the night on the gaming-room floor, but the dumb fuck isn’t getting the message.”

The familiar coldness of purpose settles over me, bringing me back to center. This is where I excel. Something I can easily control.

J’s right. This isn’t a situation that needs my assistance, but I do want input. And tonight . . . maybe I’ll even handle it myself.

“Let’s go.”

I follow J as we leave my study and all reminders of Keira. We head back through the rabbit warren of passageways to the casino floor. Owning an entire block of the French Quarter has its perks, like being able to remove interior walls and turn the center section of half the block into an underground gambling establishment that produces more profit in a night than most men make in a year. Membership is exclusive, selective, and rarely granted. Only the very rich, very powerful, or very well-connected are allowed in, with the unspoken threat hanging over all their heads—if you talk, you die. If you cheat, you die. If you look at me wrong, you die.

When I say I rule over them with intimidation and fear, backed up by action, there is no exaggeration.

We arrive through the rear club entrance I always use, and it takes only moments to locate the private room where the lieutenant with a death wish is now playing high-stakes blackjack.

The girls who work this club are under my protection, and an offense against them is an offense against me. I don’t care that their dresses barely cover their tits, pussies, or asses, or that their makeup is thicker than the paint on my favorite car. It doesn’t matter that they’re working for their money in the world’s oldest profession. They don’t get manhandled in my club. That’s part of the rules, but drunk men sometimes forget. When they do, I have no problem with my staff reminding them of the consequences.

This girl, a skinny blonde with dark roots, is trying to discreetly disentangle herself from his embrace, attempting to avoid a scene. The dumb fuck, as J called him, isn’t letting her free. Instead, he fists her hair and yanks her down with such force, she hits her knees.

My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I ignore it as wrath fills my veins. The ones who fuck with the blondes always bring it out of me even more.

The lieutenant, who is at least six inches shorter than me and fifty pounds lighter, forces her face into his lap. “Suck my dick, bitch.”

“He dies tonight.” I say it quietly, but J doesn’t ask me to repeat myself. This is a foregone conclusion.

“I’ll take care of it, boss.”

I shake my head as I harness my rage and turn it cold. “No. I’m handling this personally.”

“You sure? I can—”

When I swing my stare to J, my second-in-command sucks in a breath.

“Of course you’re sure. Maybe it’ll be better coming from you anyway.”

J assumes I’m doing this myself because it’ll send a clear message to the lieutenant’s jefe, but that’s only part of it. Tonight, I need an outlet for everything raging inside me, and this piece of shit picked the wrong day and the wrong motherfucker’s place to cause problems. He won’t make that mistake again.