Page 172 of Filthy Savage

“Amara Quinn.” I kneel before him, grabbing a fistful of his shirt. “Your student. That’s who.”

His eyes expand. “I didn’t do anything to your wife. I—I—I was helping her. She’s the one who came to my office, wanting extra attention.”

My blood swirls in my veins, burning hot through my marrow. “Are you trying to insinuate that this was my wife’s fault?”

“No, I just?—”

Before he can say another word, my fist lands square on his nose.

“Fuck!” he hollers, holding it as blood shoots out.

My fist tightens. “You touched what’s mine, and for that, I’m gonna have to kill you.”

“What! No, no, please. I swear. I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that. I’m weak. I’m?—”

I punch him again and again and again. So many times, I lose count after twenty.

When I stare down at him, I can barely make out his face. “Say something now, you son of a bitch.”

But he doesn’t.

Placing two fingers on his throat, I don’t register a pulse.

Well, that was easier than I thought.

Washing my hands at a nearby sink, I dry them before grabbing my cell from my pocket and calling one of our men.

“How can I help you, sir?”

“There’s something I need you and the boys to get rid of. Need it done so no one finds it. It’s at the barn.”

“We’re on our way.”

Staring down at my shirt, I find blood everywhere. Slipping it off, I leave it here to have my men destroy it. I don’t want Amara to see me like this. Things have been going well between us, especially with the baby now, and I don’t want to jeopardize it.

Heading home, I find Amara putting on Fia’s shoes.

“Hi, Daddy!” Fia rushes over, wrapping her arms around my thighs, and I use one hand to hold her to me.

Amara inspects me suspiciously. “What happened to your shirt?”

“Just tore it riding.”

“Oh…” Her brows snap. “I didn’t realize that’s where you were.”

“Where are you two going?” I quickly change the subject.

“I’m just gonna take her out to the swings and let her run around before dinner.”

“That’s a good idea.” I clasp the back of her neck and kiss her softly. When I gaze back at her, my damn heart beats even louder. “I love you, Amara.”

Maybe it’s wrong to say it now, to tell her the truth after I just murdered someone. But I want her to know. I want my wife to know that I love her.

She gasps, unable to contain the emotions coasting through her wide gaze.

Seconds pass while I wait for her to say it back.

Instead, she continues to stare, unable to. Or maybe not wanting to.

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