Celt. (Den of Mercenaries Book 2) (24 page)

He didn’t know why he shared that information with her—it wasn’t like it was particularly vital. Usually, he was careful not to reveal anything about himself or his family in the company of others, but with her … he wanted to share.

For the first time, he wanted someone else to know him…

And what a fool he had been, Uilleam thought with some bitterness as he stared across the distance at a painting that held both good and awful memories. He could still remember so clearly the way
she
had fawned over it, engrossed by the image depicted in the paint, but then he could also remember his mother’s love of it, almost to an obsessive degree.

Resting on the mantel above the hearth, The Withered Lover looked darker, more foreboding in the glowing light of the fire raging beneath it.

Though he had contracted the job to get the painting back in his possession, he hadn’t given much thought to what he would do with it now that he had it. Once, fleetingly, he had thought to hang it back in its proper place, in the same place his mother had displayed it, but during a fit of rage, he had burned his former home to the ground.

For what memories he couldn’t block out, he destroyed.

Looking at it now, and the memories it invoked, he felt that familiar urge to destroy something, to rid it from his sight and be done with it forever. He could have left it to whomever the buyer was, but that wasn’t the way his compulsion worked.

Uilleam had to know that the things that haunted him were gone for good, not just in the hands of another.

That was why this game of his wouldn’t be over until there were no pieces left.

And this painting, this god-awful fucking painting was a part of it.

He could still remember when he was a boy, how happy his mother had been when she received it as a token of his father’s love for her. It didn’t matter that there was a certain somberness to the work, his mother had merely seen another expensive bauble and gladly accepted it.

But her appreciation for it had withered as she became the woman depicted.

Taking a swig of his scotch, Uilleam tapped his finger against the glass, the ring adorning his middle finger making a sharp sound as it came in contact with it. Only a few more seconds of contemplation passed before he was setting his drink down and getting to his feet.

From one second to the next, he was across the room, plucking the painting from its place and tossing it, frame and all, into the fire.

Kneeling before it, he watched as the flames licked at the edges, the center of the canvas already changing to an inky black as it burned through. While it may have been consumed by the fire around it, it wasn’t destroyed completely.

Not yet.

But there was one thing Uilleam had as he went back and reclaimed his seat.

He had time to watch it burn.

A
s Uilleam exited his car
, heading into a building that looked rather unassuming from the outside, the minute he stepped foot out of the elevator, the tangy scent of blood assaulted his senses.

People had the tendency to forget just how far a person was willing to go for someone they loved. Reason went out the window when dealing with matters of the heart, and even Uilleam had felt that overwhelming emotion when he was fighting for someone he had no business fighting for.

But that was better left to the past where it belonged.

Celt, on the other hand …

The Irish mercenary was in a precarious position, one where if he made even the slightest of mistakes, the girl he had fallen in love with would die.

Uilleam was used to death, had felt its cold, unforgiving hand more than once as people he had cared for were stolen from him.

Now, death was just another part of his world.

If he had no use for a person, they didn’t matter to him. And while the girl the Irish mercenary seemed to fancy was quite skilled at forgery, he had no use for one at the moment, so whether she lived or died because someone had their knickers in a twist over a simple deception … well that really wasn’t his problem.

It wasn’t until he had learned the name of the person wanting Celt’s lover dead did Uilleam take an interest in it all.

Elora Colliette.

Uilleam despised the woman, and not just because she had decided to work with his mysterious enemy, whoever it was. It was because he found her annoying. She tried to play a game she had no business in, and she was starting to irk his nerves.

This last event, her making such a bold play against him was just the final straw.

She just hadn’t known it yet.

But he didn’t doubt, as he stood in her office, her eyes rapt on him as her fearful gaze wondered when the next bullet would come, she understood the gravity of her mistake.

But she only let that fear control her momentarily before it was replaced with anger. “I should have known,” she spat at him the moment Celt and the girl were no longer in the room.

Tilting his head to the side, a sly smile played on Uilleam’s lips as he regarded her. “Known what, exactly?”

“
This
,” she said with a sharp slash of her hand in the air at the bodies that lay around them. “I knew you were bold, but this? I never would have thought you would go this far. And for what? A meaningless painting.”

He found it amusing that she thought it meaningless now that he had her exactly where he wanted her. She seemed to have forgotten that it was she who had killed three people in her quest to acquire it.

And despite his private feelings for the painting itself, Uilleam made sure to correct her. “If you doubted my abilities before, I hope I’ve rectified that.”

“What do you want?” she asked, folding her hands in front of her. “It was never about the painting, was it? You already have that. You set all of this up to back me into a corner, undoubtedly.”

Perhaps she wasn’t as clueless as he had first pegged her. She was correct in her assumption that it had never been about the painting for him, so there was no point in revealing as much.

“Three years ago, you had an affair with a man by the name of Malcolm Turner.”

Her brow knit in confusion as she cast her mind back. “The investment banker? I can’t see how he will be of any use to you considering he’s dead.”

That wasn’t news to Uilleam. It also wasn’t news that she was the one behind the man’s death. Of course, Malcolm hadn’t been innocent during his fifty-six years of living. Laundering money for people he
really
shouldn’t have been in business with and paying off a number of young girls to keep their mouths shut about the depraved things he had made them do. So, he hadn’t cared much when Elora poisoned the man and inherited everything.

“I knew he would die the minute he crawled between your legs, but I know you, Elora. And I know that you took more from him than just his fortune, particularly, his files.”

Her jaw clenched, her gaze darting around the room as she considered lying. Because he was in the mood, he allowed her the chance to shift through the thoughts in that diabolical brain of hers.

Uilleam had already warned her once, the consequences of making a move against him. And that was all anyone ever got, that one warning.

Like he said, everyone knew what it meant once they were no longer useful to him.

“Let’s say I do have the files,” she said after clearing her throat with a delicate cough. “What do you expect to find in them? I highly doubt it will still prove useful after this long.”

“My reasons are my own. As far as what I want, I want every single piece of information, both printed and digital, you have pertaining to the late Mr. Turner.”

It was clear she wanted to deny his request, but with another look around the room at the destruction he had caused, she rethought her silent denial.

“I’ll have them sent to you. My help is a bit …” She toed the leg of one of the burly men dead at her feet … “indisposed at the moment.”

Ah, just so. “You have seven hours, Elora. Seven. Should you not deliver in a timely fashion, I will rip away everything you hold dear, and even what you don’t.”

He would destroy her life.

And that was one of his better traits.

His message given, Uilleam turned to leave.

But Elora, more than a little flustered and embarrassed to having been outsmarted by him, didn’t take too kindly to that. “Is it true what they’re saying about you?” she called after him.

“I choose not to indulge in idle gossip, Elora. I suggest you do the same,” he said, even though he knew it would fall on deaf ears.

She thrived on rumors.

“He talked, you know,” Elora went on, oblivious to his growing agitation. “Before you learned he betrayed you. He told others how she ran from you. And
why
.”

She crossed the floor to him, slipping into her temptress role that usually garnered things in her favor. “Not everyone likes learning they’re sleeping with the devil.”

A soft laugh fell from her lips when she realized she was getting to him, but the sound cut off sharply as he grabbed her by the neck and dragged her closer, not moved by the way her nails dug into his skin.

Squeezing tighter, he said, “I once knew a man that mistook a king for a pawn, Elora. Don’t make the same mistake
.
Do what I’ve asked, then run far, far away, because the next time I see you, I won’t be nearly as pleasant.”

Releasing her, he ignored the tears in her eyes as she crumpled to the floor, a hand to her throat as she sucked in gulps of air. Leaving her, he strolled back out of the building without a backward glance.

Then came up short at the Aston Martin Vulcan idling at the curb.

He knew this car just as well as he knew the man behind the wheel, and even before the door was opened, Uilleam smiled.

“Hello, brother.”

W
ow
! It seems like so long ago that I was first embarking on this writing journey, ready to introduce the world to Mishca Volkov. And with his appearance came so many others, and now look where we are!

First, as always, I would like to thank the readers that are still picking my books up and reading them. It feels me with so much joy when I read reviews, comments, and messages about how much you’re enjoying my work. I love you all!

H, thank you for being so understanding when I ignore you because I’m in the middle of a book—or how I forget that there aren’t any groceries in the house when I’m in the middle of edits. Thank you for loving this scatter-brained author.

Kris, not only are you my spirit animal, but you have helped me to realize my full potential. And though you’re always cracking the whip to get me to write faster, where would I be without you? Thank you for your time and friendship. It means the world to me—more than you could ever know.

L
ondon Miller is
the author of the Volkov Bratva series, as well as Red., the first book in the Den of Mercenaries series. After graduating college, she turned pen to paper, creating riveting fictional worlds where the bad guys are sometimes the good guys.

Currently residing in Atlanta, Georgia with her husband and two puppies, she spends her nights drinking far too much mountain dew while writing.

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