Page 116 of Remy

“Then don’t place yourself in situations that require my intervention.”

I wince, the expression pulling at the tender skin of my temple while he continues to watch me. Scrutinize me. His gaze softens under mine, the slightest glimpse of empathy slipping through all his layers of malice.

I shouldn’t see that in him. Shouldn’t recognize his humanity.

But I do.

Oh, God, how I do.

He shoves his hands in his pockets, and I itch to do the same. To take the hands that cling so tightly around me and scrunch them out of view.

Shuffling and scuffed boots fill the silence, his men continuing to work behind him.

I picture them moving the body, lifting it without care as they grunt and mutter curses. The nauseating thud of what I assume to be the bouncer’s skull against a hard surface makes my stomach roil.

I heave a breath and suck another back in.

This isn’t right. None of it.

Not the murder and mayhem. Or the illegal arrangement.

And most of all, my attraction to an unrepentant murderer.

It’s wrong. So mindlessly, reprehensibly wrong, and I don’t know how to fix it.

“Come on.” Remy’s touch brushes my elbow. “It’s time to go.”

“No.” I shake my head. “Give me a minute. I need to…” I keep trying to loosen the cement in my brain so I can strategize. “I want to…”

“What, Ollie?” He steps closer. “Tell me.”

That nickname. His tone. It punctures me, stabbing me through the chest to slice me down the middle. “I need to figure out how I feel about this.”

He stiffens, surprised somehow, but I don’t care. I inch to the side to peer around his shoulder my nose scrunching at the heartless way his men carry the bouncer by his wrists and ankles.

“I…” I place a hand to the base of my throat, Remy’s ring an unwanted reminder of his protection against the heel of my palm. “He…”

“Lacked remorse,” Remy finishes for me. “He hurt you. Blamed you. And would’ve carried on doing the same thing to other innocent women. He doesn’t deserve to hold space in your thoughts.”

The internal doors squeak as the men carry the dead body into the hall, leaving me alone with the man who killed my attacker. Leaving me to drown in the heavy silence that’s filled with emotions I don’t want to feel.

“What did you do to him?” I ask, returning my gaze to Remy.

He considers me for long seconds. “I don’t think knowing the details is?—”

“What did you do?” I repeat with adamance.

His jaw ticks. “I hit him a couple times.”

As far as under-exaggerations go, that one’s a biggie.

He mutilated the man. Butchered.

“Is that how he died?” I swallow over the desert taking over my throat. “From being beaten?”

“I’m no coroner, but yeah, I’d conclude it was the rigorous blunt-force trauma.”

Still there’s no remorse. No hardship to the brutality. No anguished hindsight.

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