Page 21 of Sweet Violence
Bullshit.
“You want to justify interference.”
His smile faded, just a fraction.
“Mr. Quinn demonstrated analytical restraint, discretion, and an understanding of the material that goes beyond regurgitation. If you’re disappointed he doesn’t fit your preferred narrative of pedigree, that’s not my concern.”
Like hell I was going to stand here and let him question my judgment—let alone reduce Archibald to a miscalculation.
My rabbit had more intelligence in his fucking pinky finger than Dean Randolph had in his entire, over-polished body, and the fact that this man thought lineage counted as competence told me everything I needed to know.
“Very well.” Randolph gave a small, measured nod. “I’ll trust your instincts—for now.”
He stepped back, putting space between us. “Just remember, Henry. Wexley prides itself on fairness.”
Fairness.
For fuck’s sake.
That word always showed up when people wanted to feel better about decisions they’d already made.
He turned before I could answer. His shoulders loosened as soon as he put his back to me. The confidence he’d been borrowing returned in increments.
When he was out of my sight, the restraint I’d been holding tightened instead of easing, coiling under my skin.
I turned and took the stairs two at a time, movement sharp and deliberate, anger settling into something colder as my pulse caught up.
If Randolph thought this conversation was finished, he was mistaken.
I didn’t forget men who tried to touch what I’d chosen.
Or question what I intended to keep.
By the time I reached my office door, my blood buzzed with irritation.
The key slid into the lock with a muted scrape, familiar resistance giving way as I turned it and stepped inside.
Crossing to the desk, I set my bag down and loosened my tie, rolling my shoulders as if I could shake Randolph and his bullshit out of my joints.
I reached for the slim stack of papers I’d given Archibald to review that morning.
A cheap, black pen sat haphazardly beside the stack. One end bore faint teeth marks, the plastic roughened where someone had worried it absentmindedly while thinking. I picked it up without meaning to, turning it once between my fingers. Curiosity drew it closer, my thumb settling over the indentation before I caught myself.
Rabbit.
For a beat, I brought it to my mouth and set it against my lower lip—exactly where his teeth had been.
Exhaling through my nose, I put the pen in my pocket like it belonged to me now.
Likehebelonged to me.
I noticed the water bottle a second later—hard plastic, scuffed to a dull blue.
Its surface was cluttered with stickers that had outlived their usefulness—one faded Swedish flag, one bookstore spine logo peeling at the corner like it had been picked at endlessly.
I stared at it, jaw tightening.
Of coursehe’d left it.
