I took a long, slow breath. “I’m just saying that rushing through something this important seems…unwise.”

Malone actually smiled, glancing around the room at his allies to see if they shared his amusement. “Thank you for your concern. I’m sure we’re all very interested in your assessment of what constitutes wisdom.”

Prick. I felt my face flush even hotter than before.

“Now, Dean, if you’ll show Ms. Sanders to her room…”

Colin stood, but I refused, so he hauled me up by one arm.

“Stop.” My dad stepped directly into Malone’s path. “I will not leave her here alone.”

“Of course not!” Malone took another sip from his mug, overworking the whole you’re-not-important-enough-to-ruffle-my-feathers routine. “She’ll be under armed guard.” He gestured toward Dean, whose hand tightened around my arm, and my blood ran cold.

No way in hell was I going to be under Dean, in any sense of the world, armed or not.

“That’s a blatant conflict of interest!” I insisted, twisting in Dean’s grip to glare at Malone. Calm and steady would only go so far, and a controlled facade would not keep me from being harassed—or worse—while I was held handcuffed by a psychopath with a pistol in one hand and a misogynistic chip on his shoulder. “I’m on trial in part for stabbing Dean, and you want to hand him a gun and the key to my room? Maybe you’d also like to tie me up, strip me, and paint a big red target on my chest!”

“Are you suggesting one of the council’s task force members can’t remain impartial and in control of his temper?”

“I’m flat out saying it!” I jerked my arm from Dean’s grip and before Malone could protest, I turned to Blackwell, the de facto swing vote in everything important. “Look, Councilman Blackwell, the truth is that I stabbed Dean with his own knife to keep him from carving his initials into my chest.”

A couple of the enforcers actually gasped—either because they believed me or because they were impressed that I’d tell such a bold lie in a room full of Alphas. Blackwell actually flinched, so I pressed on, turning to address my next statement to the entire room.

“You have two choices about what to believe. You can either believe that he cut me and I was defending myself, which proves that Colin Dean shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near either women or weapons…”

Dean started to grab my arm again, but I stumbled away from him and toward my uncle, who steadied me, even as I rushed on, the words tumbling from my mouth almost too quickly to be understood. “Or you can believe that after I stabbed him for no good reason, he had the strength not only to remain standing, but to remove the knife from his chest, hold me down, and slash my cheek in return. Personally, I think that explanation defies logic, but if you choose to believe that version, then the scar on my cheek can’t be anything other than cold-blooded revenge on Dean’s part. What’s to stop him from doing it again, if you leave me alone with him? It’ll be even easier this time, since I can’t defend myself.”

Silence blanketed the room as my last word faded. My dad’s allies looked incensed. Blackwell looked convinced. And even a couple of Malone’s allies looked…confused. Which was as much as I could hope for, under the circumstances.

“That’s ridiculous…” Malone started, but Blackwell planted his cane firmly on the floor and stood, cutting Malone off.

“She’s right,” he declared. “Until we have a verdict, I don’t think Ms. Sanders and Mr. Dean should be anywhere near each other. Calvin, assign someone else to guard her, or I’ll keep us here in a locked vote all night long, to make sure she’s safe.”

Ten

“Do we really need these cuffs?” I rotated my hands, trying to relieve the ache in my wrists and the pins and needles in my fingers, but only wound up straining my shoulders. “Dean put them on too tight, and my hands are going numb.”

Alex didn’t even look at me.

I sat on the end of the twin bed on the right, trying to control my temper with Zen-like concentration on the faded, country plaid bedspread beneath me. Unfortunately, I didn’t find country decor relaxing. In fact, it had a nails-on-chalkboard kind of effect on me. As did Alex Malone, my full-time jailer.

Alex sat in a straight-back chair to the right of the door, arms crossed over his chest, glancing my way every few seconds to make sure I hadn’t so much as blinked since the last time he’d looked. Occasionally he’d squirm in his chair, searching for a comfortable position, which wasn’t going to happen with that gun tucked into the back of his jeans.

I’d lobbied to get rid of the gun, insisting that the weapon and handcuffs together constituted gross overkill. I was hoping Malone would be reluctant to admit that I warranted so much precaution. Instead, he’d asked if I was willing to swear I wouldn’t try to escape from an unarmed guard.

Foiled, by my own unwillingness to tell a bald-faced lie…

Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be the good guy. And the worst part was that I was too pissed off to enjoy the triumph of finally being acknowledged as a serious threat by the enemy. The risk of being shot kind of sucked the joy right out of the occasion.

But on the bright side—okay, the less-than-pure-gloom side—Malone would never be able to cite inherent female weakness as the reason women shouldn’t be allowed as enforcers. Not after the fuss he was making over my detention.