Page 48 of Black Heart

That same brackish tang fills my lungs as I step out, the crunch of gravel beneath my boots the only sound between my grim face and hers.

The darkness in me thrives on this—the intimidation, the control—but there’s a shimmering undercurrent of something else. Something disturbingly like guilt that I crush into nonexistence as I hoist a box from the back of the truck and stride up to her door.

“Don’t you dare step inside,” she hisses as a greeting.

I don’t bother with a reply. Instead, I shove past her into the cottage.

The space is cozy, imbued with an inviting warmth that I fight against absorbing. Her scent lingers everywhere, the same way it did when I first broke in to set up surveillance equipment—a disquieting mixture of florals and ocean breeze.

It sinks into my skin.

Unloading the box onto the nearby table, I let my gaze sweep across the room, taking in the peculiar blend of nautical history and her attempts at modern comfort. The ground floor is an open space, combining a small kitchen and living area. Exposed wooden beams crisscross the ceiling, weathered by years of sea air. Layla’s added splashes of teal and coral in the curtains and throw pillows in a pitiful attempt to brighten the space.

A narrow, spiral staircase dominates one corner, leading to the upper floors. As I ascend, I note the walls lined with faded nautical charts and her father’s amateur watercolor attempts at seascapes. The second floor holds a small bathroom and guest room, with Layla’s bedroom occupying the former watch room.

The top floor, a sole octagon shaped room with windows for walls, serves as Layla’s home office. Its glass enclosure provides a 360-degree view of the surrounding cliffs and ocean, but the inside is cluttered with more of her father’s driftwood sculptures and collections of sea glass.

Layla’s at my heels, her face colored and eyes flashing. I pivot, almost crashing into her.

“You have no right to?—”

I ignore her unfinished sentence and descend back into the bottom floor. I move briskly through the living room, deliberately knocking over a tower of stacked books and scattering them across the worn hardwood.

It’s a cheap power play, but I can’t deny the perverse satisfaction it brings.

“You son of a bitch!” Layla shouts from behind me.

I turn to face her, watching as she bends down to retrieve her fallen books. She raises her head to glare at me and something wild sparks between us—a dangerous heat that has me clenching my fists.

“Keep biting at my heels, and I’ll go for your father’s pretty artwork next.”

“I’d rather you went for his stuff,” she retorts, her lips shimmering with her spit. “I don’t give a damn about his paintings. These books are my favorite of all time, and if you touch them again, I’ll?—”

I cock my head. “You’ll what?”

Her mouth twitches with all the profanities she’d no doubt love to hurl at me.

A burst of laughter rushes from my lips before I can squelch it.

“Are you always this fierce, or is it just for me?” I ask, my tone more mocking than curious.

Instead of voicing any of the ways in which she likely wants me to die, she collects her fallen books, cradling them like wounded animals as she storms over to the corner where a rickety bookshelf leans against the wall.

“Get out,” she croaks, pointing toward the door behind me.

My amusement fades as quickly as it came. “You care more about your romance books than your father’s legacy?”

Layla pauses and looks at me over her shoulder, a careful expression on her face. “Why should I?”

“They are all that’s left of him,” I say before I can stop myself.

“My father left behind more than enough baggage,” she snaps, her voice brittle.

I arch a brow, advancing closer. Layla has no idea how close she’s coming to treading on my weakness, the one aspectof honor I’ve retained, or how fast she’ll trigger me if she so much as scoffs at it. “Family is everything, Layla. You should give a damn.”

Her hands curl at her sides, the color draining from her face as I advance.

“My father left when I was a baby,” she says in a tight voice. “He chose the sea and this fucking lighthouse over his daughter. Don’t lecture me about giving a shit.”

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