Series: Webs We Weave Series by Krista Ritchie
Total pages in book: 167
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162520 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 813(@200wpm)___ 650(@250wpm)___ 542(@300wpm)
Shifting closer, I see Weston grip the lip of the bar near Trevor. “I can make your life very difficult here.” He careens into my brother’s space.
I feel Phoebe bristling behind me, but I wait to see how Trev will handle this.
He doesn’t flinch. “Like you make hers?”
“Stay away from my daughter.”
“She’s not your property, man.”
Weston rips the liquor out of Trevor’s hand. I explode forward, grabbing a fistful of his sport coat. I yank him backward off my brother, then I shove him hard into the bar. He relinquishes the glass as I pin him.
Trevor snatches the alcohol off the counter. “Nice talking to you. Now you can deal with my brother.” He lifts the rim to his lips just as Phoebe steals the glass out of his hand, liquor sloshing onto the grimy floor.
“What the fuck, PG?” He gapes.
“You’re underage.”
That’s not why Weston tried to take it from Trev. It was a silly fucking power move to make my brother look weak.
“Get off me,” Weston snarls at me.
I release my hold on him, just so he can turn around. When he does and his back presses into the sticky bar, I get in his face like he got in my brother’s. “I don’t care who the fuck you are,” I sneer, “or how much money you have or how many friends you’ve bought around here—you ever corner my brother like that again and you’ll wish the only thing you see are my fucking lawyers.”
He works his jaw, fixes his sport coat, and tries to straighten up. As if physical violence is beneath us, but I have no issue knocking him out. The only reason I don’t is because I’m trying to set an example for my brother, and I don’t want him to beat people to shit.
Weston fixes his gaze on me. “Tell your degenerate brother to never speak to Sidney again, and you and I won’t have a problem, Grey.”
“This isn’t Let’s Make a Deal. Your daughter is a grown adult. She can make her own choices.”
“You tell him, Rock,” Trevor pipes in.
I bite my tongue from snapping at him to shut the fuck up. He’s not making this any better or easier.
Weston is seething. He sees he’s not winning, and so this prick seeks out what he believes is my weakness. He tilts his head toward Phoebe. His gaze drips invasively down her body, like he’s stripping her in front of me. I sidestep and block his view of her, but it’s too late. He shoots a sickly smug smile at me, as if she’s just a pawn he can move between us.
I know Phoebe is fuming. I don’t even need to look to feel her wrath. It sears through me.
Weston starts, “Your brother screws with my daughter, don’t expect me not to do the same—”
“Think carefully about what you say next,” I cut in with malice. “Because my wife wouldn’t touch you with a hundred-foot pole even if she were on her deathbed. So the only way you could get her is by force, and if you even fucking dare force yourself on her, you will regret ever knowing who I am.”
He falters, patches of red on his cheeks. He’s having a hard time coming up with something to say, but I have plenty to add.
“I’ve seen so many of you,” I sneer lowly, nearly under my breath at him. “You’re all the same cowardly pieces of shit. When the debt piles up and the liquor stops numbing the hatred you feel for yourself and your outsides curdle like your insides, try phoning a friend. I’d love to see who answers a bastard like you.”
His expression is that of distaste and disgust. “Look in the mirror.”
“Oh, I have. Trust me. I know exactly what I am.” I stare him down. “And you and I—we aren’t the same. Not even close.”
Unleashing on Weston feels like ripping through a brick wall—one that I’ve been banging my head against for too long. But it’s not enough. Because he’s not the number one person I want to rattle and slam into the floor.
I would love to go feral on Trent Waterford. Jake’s older brother.
But I can’t. He still has too much leverage and power in this town to turn into an enemy.
Weston fixes the collar of his white button-down, his rage mounting. “If you had a daughter,” he says tightly to me, “you’d understand the lengths you’d go to protect her.”
I flash a dry smile at him. “Well, I don’t have one.”
“Thank God for that.”
“Is that supposed to hurt me?” I let out a blistered, acidic laugh. Then I say, “Go fuck yourself, Weston.” I wave him toward the exit.
“Likewise.” He marches out with a curled lip and snooty attitude.
I rotate to my brother, eyes skimming him head to toe. “You good?”