❝It's not blood that runs through my veins, but vengeance.❞
Tatum Braddock wants to beat her sister at a decades-long search for fortune.
Nathan Drake wants to find his long-lost brother and complete the mission they've dreamed of since childhood...
TATE'S PHONE BUZZES IN the middle of her punch. The noise startles her, making it land awkwardly on her fist, her last two knuckles skimming the bag instead of her first ones. She grimaces at the shock that travels up her arm and takes a step back.
Ronan is unimpressed. "I told you to keep it on silent."
"I thought I did," she replies breathlessly, squaring up to fix her mistake and beat the punching bag bloody. Her next hit is a solid uppercut that would knock the wind out of any grown man.
It's not Wednesday, but she'd requested another private training session with Ronan anyway in preparation for the upcoming auction. She has absolutely zero faith that things will go smoothly enough that she won't have to fight at least one person. She thought she'd be chill about this and have fun with the idea of going undercover, but all it's done is made her nerves even worse.
She's really going to do it. She's going to see her sister again.
The thought makes her sick to her stomach with both fear and rage.
"Who's Nathan and why does he need to know how to cut the power?"
Tate freezes and forgets to either hit the bag or move when it swings back toward her, causing a hundred and fifty pounds to smack into her head-on. She stumbles back, arms windmilling to catch her balance, but succumbs to the pull of gravity anyway. She's a millisecond away from hitting the floor when Ronan catches her and hauls her to her feet like she's weightless.
Slightly bemused by her failure, he shows Tate her phone. On the lockscreen is a series of texts.
UNKNOWN: It's Nathan
UNKNOWN: Still can't figure out how to cut the power
Tate mentally applauds him for his confidentiality. She has half a mind to prank him and say he's got the wrong number, but that would be downright mean, and she has a soul.
"He's our bartender," Tate reminds him, picking at the tape around her knuckles and wrists.
Recognition fills Ronan's face as the information clicks. "He gave me the history of Ireland when he learned my name, right?"
"That would be him."
"And you gave him your number?" Tate doesn't know whether or not to be offended by the pure disbelief in her friend's face and voice. "Who are you and what have you done with Tatum Braddock? Did he seduce you with his weird history knowledge?"
