His eyes fell to the package on the floor of the culvert, his voice echoing in the concrete tunnel. â€œWhat have you done?â€ Roman hissed.
â€œWhat you wonâ€™t.â€
Roman squinted at his sister. â€œAgain, I thought we were supposed to be sharing the helm.â€
She shoved her hands in the pockets of her patchwork leather coat. â€œThat ship has sailed.â€
Flippant as always. â€œSo is this your version of a coup? Shall I graciously step down and leave you to your own devices?â€
â€œRayna!â€ he scolded.
â€œYouâ€™re not suited to leadership, dear brother. Your spine is a bitâ€¦jiggly.â€
Breathe. Donâ€™t get angry. He peered down at the unconscious woman on the concrete floor, trussed up in rope like she was a participant in one of his sisterâ€™s sex games. His sister had gained a bit of a reputation as the Dominatrix of the clan. Male witches seemed unnaturally drawn to her power. â€œWhy have you taken her?â€
He tasted blood on his tongue. Heâ€™d have to remind himself not to clench his jaw so hard. â€œI donâ€™t want to wait and see, Rayna. Tell me! You are not in charge.â€
Turning her toothy smile on him, she said, â€Yes. I think I am. Now, just follow along, Roman. Iâ€™ll show you how itâ€™s done.â€ She rammed the toe of her boot into the prisonerâ€™s back, as her brother winced. The woman grunted, stirred, opened heavy eyelids. Realizing her situation, she struggled at the ropes, to no avail, eyes darting up to meet Raynaâ€™s. Reading her. Or trying to. But Rayna had always possessed strong defenses.
He stood at the end of the tunnel, silhouetted in the backlight of sunset. Trevor.