Cahill
"How much information has been leaked out regarding my runaway ex-fiancee and her lover?" I query, staring directly into the tab attached to the back seat in front of me.
"Uh, someone…" Ashton Prewitt, the skip tracer, private investigator, and part-time wizard who I hired to track down Genova and her lover is too focused on mixing a concoction to jerk a dead rabbit back to life, at the same time he's going through some paperwork regarding a criminal case, controlling a two-horned fussy infant, feeding a winged kitten, and blocking his ears from a giant parrot who keeps calling him sucker and dingle-dick.
His attention is divided, and it's pissing me off already.
"Ashton," I call, dangerously low and he immediately stops on hearing the anger contained in my voice.
He holds a finger in front of his screen, "ah, one moment Alpha Cahill if you don't mind."
"If I don't mind?" Uplifting a brow, I fold my arms across my chest and then glare at his shithead so hard, because I hate it when someone messes with my time.
Ashton takes his phone, hurriedly leaves the room, then closes the door shut with a loud thud, before holding his chest and heaving in relief. "I'm sorry about that, Alpha Cahill," he implores after catching his breath for a few seconds.
"Proceed," I growl because if he wastes any more of my time, I'll have the job given to another. Thousands of people would kill to take his place.
"An accomplice of mine who resides in Azerbaijan sent some B/W pictures and videos of Genova Brewer and Jack Snyder at a dirt Azerbaijan pub full of some locals. Your ex-fiancee drank a little too much and was grinding on old perverted men, while her lover got wasted, and messed the whole place up with his vomit. He was half-human, half-wolf as he cried about missing his mother's milk since he stopped suckling her busts at age five, and then he passed out in a toilet bowl full of piss." Ashton concludes, stifling laughter. But then he immediately sober up, "they still managed to escape before they could get caught."
Ticking my jaw, I free my hands from where I have them wrapped together, and curl my fingers in front of my face, "show me," I order, not even caring at this point that they weren't caught.
"Wait, are you sure about that?" Ashton asks, looking unsure of my reply, "Not like I am in any position to make suggestions for you, but seeing those stuff might put you in a sour mood. Of course you do have the right to access them, but I'm just concerned," he pauses then scratches the back of his disheveled hair awkwardly. "Not like I have any right to be concerned, I mean you just hired me and I am not in any way related or close to you. But as you know, it is an honor working for you, and I don't want you to get enraged at the pictures and videos, then decide you're done with me. You understand what I mean?" He concludes breathlessly, offering me a lopsided, sheepish, tight-lipped smile.
For a moment I blink, wondering how someone can talk so fast like he's wolfing down steaming, spicy food.
"If you open your mouth again, we're done," I warn sternly as I tick my jaw.
And the next thing that appears on my screen is a picture of Genova wearing a skimpy dress that has a slit so long that I can see her panties. She's in the midst of some Azerbaijan women who are dressed no different from slags. The pub looks like it's far from civilization and the picture is black and white so I have no idea if it's a red gown or a blue gown she was clad in. The heels she wore made her even taller than her 5'10 feet, and she is laughing with her fangs on full display, clearly selling out herself that she is drunk.
I can feel my breath getting caught up in my throat because this woman still has so much effect on me. Feelings don't die, rather one tends to deal with the pain of not being with the one you actually love. And I know that I will love her for as long as possible, even though she isn't worthy of my love.
Genova Brewer was supposed to tell me how she felt. How she really felt and not just put the word 'love' in her mouth when she spoke to me. But I guess she already saw it coming, what I would've done.
My eyes are itchy and when I rub my thumb and index finger over them, I can see slight wetness on my fingers, indicating that I am close to tears from being overwhelmed with heartache over a woman who never loved me.
Clicking onto the next image immediately shoves me out of my misery because it's an image of her and Jack Snyder who is way shorter, completely shirtless, wearing cowboy boots and a hat, with unzipped black pants where I can see a slight bulge in his penis area.
I keep clicking and clicking, getting irritated and enraged on seeing them do nasty things together, and I nearly lose all sanity when I see the video of Genova dancing and grinding on older men like some slut.
Pausing the video almost immediately to get a grip of myself, I slam my fist hard into the tab that the screen cracks and it gets completely destroyed, with Ashton's voice getting disconnected.
"What in the hell was that?" My ears kick in Mathilda's voice which is muffled through the sleeping mask she has on.
I steal a glance at her, only to see her stretching. She was so scared when we first hopped in my private jet and it took us up to the sky. No doubt she's scared of heights and spent half the entire time she was awake puking her guts out.
Finally, she fell into a deep sleep after accepting the sleeping mask offered to her by one of my flight attendants.
It's just us two here. Simone and the rest of my men stayed back at the Nolan's Mansion because Simone has to be my eyes concerning pack duties and issues and to be physically present at The Nolan's Enterprise when I want to hold a zoom meeting with departmental heads, while I'm away.
I shouldn't have agreed to this bloody honeymoon anyway. We're still eleven hours away from Bora Bora, and I am already regretting why I didn't tell Simone to cancel. What possibly will I even do there? Go to the beach, swim with turtles, have a fucking massage on the beach, stay in an overwater bungalow, and be amid Tahiti and French people at all times?
It's a hundred percent shitty because Genova Brewer wouldn't be there with me. She chose trash over luxury.
From my side-eye, I can see Mathilda rising to her feet after taking the sleeping mask off.
She's walking unsteadily as she side-steps my seat, still too drowsy to even place one foot after the other right.
It looks like she's heading to the toilet to take a piss when she accidentally misses a step, loses her balance, and is close to crashing on the floor due to her ill-judged movement.
"Dammit," I hiss under my breath as I leave my seat, wolf-leap towards her, and hurriedly gather her in my arms before she falls.