Page 174 of Immortal Rose

“That’s true,” Viola allowed. “Mama was gentle and sweet. A true lady. I’ve always wondered what she saw in you, and I fear I’m no closer to understanding, having now met you.”

Greystone’s mouth flattened dangerously. “I have wondered that myself,” he said, deceptively calm. “Then again, it would seem she never understood me at all, or what I was building for her.”

Hugh bit his tongue to keep from saying, Perhaps all the blood had rather obscured things.

“Well?” Viola asked.

“Here is my counter,” Greystone said. “You disentangle yourself from this churl, you forgo your aspirations to claim the fortune of a man who spurned your mother, and you remain here with me, because I alone can protect you. You inherit the empire I am building.”

The force of Hugh’s anger surprised him. It curled in his chest like a wounded dog, snapping at the threat. Because, in truth, some part of him feared what the man had said was true. Only Greystone truly possessed the resources and influence to protect Viola now.

“Tempting,” Viola said sardonically. “But no. I am not a child. I am barely your child. You have lost all right to act as a father.”

Greystone’s nostrils flared. “Then counter.”

“You give me the nectar, and I won’t shoot you in the head.”

“That should have been your starting position,” Greystone informed her. “A man can survive a supposedly mortal wound to the heart. I should know.”

It skirted so close to vulnerability from a man who had claimed to possess none that Hugh couldn’t mask his surprise.

“How about . . .” Greystone began again, lifting something from the desk: a worn brown leather journal. “. . . you stay, and I return this to you.”

Hugh felt a tremor pass down Viola’s spine and knew at once what the book was. Or rather, whom the journal had belonged to.

“I think you ought to keep it,” Viola told him. “There is nothing more I can learn from it. You seem to need a reminder of how badly we suffered because of the choices you made with your wounded pride.”

Greystone’s nostrils flared. “Your grandsire forbade the match.”

“But it wasn’t the reason she rejected you in the end, was it?” Viola replied, and Hugh admired and despaired her fearlessness in equal measure. “She was in love with the person you were, not the man you thought you needed to become.”

The crime lord’s lips stretched into a sneer. Greystone set the journal down again, but his fingertips trailed absently over the cover, as if to recall the feeling of the hands that had held it long ago.

“Here is my final offer,” Viola told him. “I will agree to help you with whatever is ailing you, whether it involves the creation of a perfume or something else. In exchange, you will give us the nectar now and allow us to leave unharmed.”

“Viola,” Hugh said sharply.

“I cannot give you the nectar now, but I can promise it will arrive by tomorrow at midnight at the latest,” Greystone said. “I do not keep it here. It must be fetched from my country home.”

“Fine,” she ground out. “By tomorrow at midnight. No later or the deal is off.”

It would be cutting things altogether too close where the King’s life was concerned.

“Viola—” Hugh began again.

“Well, then, if it is a choice between time with my cunning daughter and a bullet in the head, I suppose I must accept,” Greystone said, his lips curling with his smirk.

“Like hell she will,” Hugh growled at him. To indebt herself to this vile creature—it couldn’t be borne. “She will not be beholden to you in any way. If you won’t take a favor from me—”

Greystone flicked his fingers at Hugh dismissively. “You have nothing I cannot gain myself. I have already accepted the terms.”

Hugh took Viola by the arm, drawing her close to his side. The gun he pried from her hand was still hot from her touch, and its weight did nothing to soothe his anger or his fear.

“I was so certain you were here to discuss sweetfeather,” Greystone mused, leaning back against his chair. “If only.”

The room, the agreement, and Viola’s determination spun out around Hugh in a wild tumult. The thought of her trapped with this man in any capacity . . . Sweat soaked the back of his shirt, his heart kicking so hard he was certain it would shred itself against his ribs.

And Viola’s eyes saw it all. Her fingers curled around his, her expression reassuring. You know we must, her eyes said. This is the only way.