Hellbent - Shannon McKenna Page 0,1

up at GodsAcre could possibly be looking for, and stop them from finding it. According to Eric, GodsAcre was their responsibility. Their property. Their fucking sacred charge.

Eric had always been afflicted with a pain-in-the-ass hero complex, but Anton himself was not so afflicted. Why should saving Shaw’s Crossing be their job? What had the people in that place ever done but kick their asses and make them miserable? Let the town implode, if that was to be its fate. Fuck that place.

The Trask brothers owed those people nothing.

But no. At Otis’s funeral, all it took was one look at Demi Vaughan, and Eric’s goose was cooked.

And now his brother had evidently convinced himself that the device he’d seen the thugs use in the GodsAcre attack, this ‘death-pen,’ was a weapon made for mass murder.

The fuck? Granted, Eric and Demi had been through ten different kinds of hell, but even so, that sounded nuts.

Of course Anton wouldn’t abandon his brother. He’d go back there and offer what help he could. And Eric was hardly defenseless. Anton had posted two of his best security men to cover them until he and Nate Murphy, his head of security, could get back there to offer their support. Anton had only dared to tell this strange tale to Nate, and so far, Nate was handling it well. Anton was grateful for that.

But the whole thing made him so tense, it was impossible to concentrate.

A nearer source of light assaulted his eyes as the door to his office opened. Nate leaned inside. “Anton,” he said. “That hot redhead’s back at it again. She says—”

“I said to get rid of her,” Anton snarled.

Icy silence followed his words. Anton turned to see Nate lounging casually against the doorframe, waiting to reply. He appeared to be relaxed, but his eyes were hard.

“You get a free one today,” Nate said finally. “One free one. Just because you’ve been bereaved, and your brother got attacked, and it’s been a weird week for you. But for future reference, remember that I am not your fucking butler.”

Anton blew out a sharp sigh. “Yes,” he said curtly. “Message received.”

The two men gazed at each other. Anton lifted his hands. “So?” he said, with exaggerated calm. “About the redhead? You were saying?”

“Yeah, her. She had a personal message for you.”

“Don’t they all.”

Nate’s face stayed impassive. “She says her name is Fiona Garrett. And that she’s in trouble. Ring a bell?”

Anton stood there, mind wiped blank. Shocked stupid.

Fiona.

The heavy beat from downstairs made the building throb dully, like a wound when the painkillers started to wear off. He couldn’t seem to breathe.

Nat’s eyes narrowed. “I guess that answers my question. Is everything okay?”

“Fiona?” The name stuck in Anton’s throat like a rock. “You’re sure she said Fiona Garrett?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. What’s up with her? She pregnant? Do you owe her money? Does she want to break your kneecaps? Does she intend to sue you or shoot you or castrate you?”

Anton shook his head. “No. I haven’t seen her in years.”

Nate’s puzzled frown deepened. “Dude. Is there something I need to know about this girl?”

Anton shook his head. “Old stuff,” he said. “Ancient history. We grew up together. In the mountains.”

“Wait. You mean she’s from GodsAcre?” Nate’s eyes widened. “Holy shit!”

“Yeah.” His friend had gotten a crash course on Anton’s whacked-out GodsAcre childhood last week when he’d accompanied Anton back to Shaw’s Crossing after Eric and Demi’s wild adventure. Anton still wasn’t used to having anybody know so much about his ugly history. The revelations had made him feel uncomfortably exposed.

He turned to the security monitors on the wall. “Where is she now?”

Nate pointed at one of the screens. “That’s her. Waiting by the staircase near the back bar.”

Anton studied the camera feed Nate had indicated. Yeah, it was the girl they had pointed out before. The hot one who’d asked for a private meeting with him earlier.

Which he had regretfully declined. He hadn’t recognized that girl as Fiona. Not in this bizarre context. Certainly not in those clothes.

In fact, he still wasn’t convinced that woman could possibly be her.

Women reached out to him all the time. As his celebrity had grown, he’d gotten accustomed to the sex that was continually on offer to him. It got boring sometimes, but it was convenient. Whenever he felt the urge, he barely had to reach out his hand. And with a bare minimum of mental acrobatics, he managed not to feel guilty about it. They came to him begging