Page 55 of Ruthless Love

A million crazy thoughts must be going through her mind. She’s wondering about Dimitri, and if the deadliest predators are quietest before they strike. And while her mind’s racing, she’s probably considering me.

Am I simply a brave idiot, or something more? Someone who knows surveillance techniques and obscure facts about Dimitri. The random guy across the street who she wants—no, needs—to tear her free from the quicksand she can feel pulling at her, but can’t seem to escape.

But there’s something else nagging at her too, and a drawn-out lie would be easier than the truth. But I can’t tell her the whole truth. Not yet.

Meeting my eyes again, she asks, “What did he say?”

Honestly, I say, “Not much. But he wished me luck.”

That morsel of truth brings a smile to her face, and she pulls away just enough that her amused eyes meet mine. “Are you telling me that you took a rich and powerful man’s girl, and he wished you luck?”

My large hand cups the smoothness of her cheek. “Cross my heart.”

Chapter Thirty

DIMITRI

Adrenaline sends fire through my veins, and I explode into action. Without thinking, I snatch up the ring box and hurl it as hard as I can into the antique mirror that once belonged to Marie Antoinette.

The old glass doesn’t spiderweb with cracks like a new mirror would. Its vintage strength holds tight so the new crack is clean and small, barely running from one end to the other.

With my bare fist, I heave a punch into the glass that shatters it beyond repair. Blood drips from small gashes in my hand as a smile forms on my lips. I admire the mirror and the pain, satisfied for a fleeting second.

Snatching the phone from my pocket, I call a number I’ve come to know by heart but am careful to delete after every call. Within half a ring, it’s answered.

“You have a problem,” I say, my voice low and menacing. “I’ll be home for my brother’s birthday. You have until I return to fix it.”

I hang up, taking my time contemplating the box propped open on the floor.

Chapter Thirty-One

EVIE

Tonight, Austin and I are at my place, where we seem to be every night. When we have sex, it’s mind-blowing, but just once, I’d like to awaken curled up beside him.

Instead, it’s another night of Austin sneaking back to his place after he thinks I’ve gone to sleep. And as usual, my curiosity gets the better of me. It always gets the better of me.

He heads home, but the lights stay on, even though it’s nearly three in the morning. A few minutes later, a woman shows up, and I realize why the man never cares what I wear. The terry bathrobe might have been sexier had it not been for actual curlers in her hair.

This one sticks around, and the minutes drag on for an eternity until she leaves, her face shadowed by darkness. Still, a small voice inside me says, She’s pretty.

Once her BMW is down the street, his lights go out, and I wonder why he doesn’t come back. Compartmentalizing my feelings into “Needs for Me” and “Needs for Austin,” I half consider that he’s got to be exhausted, dividing his attention between his clients and me.

Rather than return to the coldness of a big, empty bed, I lie down on the couch, and pound a pillow senseless until I’m satisfied it’s thoroughly fluffed for my frenzied mind and unsettled head. The force of me yanking the soft throw over me unlocks another bit of tension, as does knocking something small and heavy on top of it clear across the room. Whatever it is, it lands near the window with a thud.

My irritation is subdued by curiosity when I realize it’s a phone. Austin’s phone. Picking it up, I check to see that it’s still working, which I attribute to the sharp man who realized early on that his girlfriend might get emotional and, on a whim, hurl his phone across the room. Safe in its OtterBox case, it remains unscratched.

When I notice two missed calls from a woman named Gaby, my heart drops. Was that her? The woman who just left?

It shouldn’t tie my stomach in knots, but it does, seeing her name as he put it in his contact list followed by a big heart emoji. Pushing down my desperate need to know who this woman is, I stare a minute longer than I should, focusing mostly on the heart.

A few hours later—maybe two, maybe eight—I wake on the couch to the muffled sounds of something shuffling in the kitchen. Vast beams of bright daylight bleed through the sheers, and I blink hard, fighting my eyes open.

I peek my head above the back of the couch, finding Austin scrounging around in my kitchen, undoubtedly in search of his phone. The one I have clutched in my hand.

Shit. Shutting my eyes, I cower into the couch and ask, “Looking for this?”

I hold the cell high, hearing his footsteps approach as his athletic form lunges over the back of the couch, plopping his ass next to mine, and scooping me onto his lap for a kiss.

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