Page 78 of Vow of Vengeance

I’m not sure what to say, so I say, “No.”

“Is this like some kind of break?” Her brow furrows at me.

“I don’t do breaks.” I sweep in to kiss her lips. “Not with you.”

“Good.” She wraps her arms around my neck. “I am a little behind on schoolwork with this last-minute trip and all. Think I can talk Gian into some more tutoring help?”

My heart pulls toward her. I want to stay. I want to be the one teaching her French. Practicing our French kissing…

As if reading my mind, she stands on her tiptoes, stretching up toward me for more kisses.

Fucking. Adorable. How can I leave?

I pull her in tight.

She wants space. I want her. The need to control her bubbles up with heat and ferocity, like lava from an erupting volcano. I can’t make her marry me. I can only wait for her decision.

But I can punish her.

“Don’t touch yourself while I’m gone,” I say. “That pussy belongs to me.”

“Seriously?” Exasperated with me, her arms drop from my neck. “When you say things like that—these are the things you say that have me questioning you?—”

“Question me all you want. This is who I am.” I cut off her words, grabbing her pussy.

She gasps as I squeeze her in my palm. “Stop.”

But I don’t, instead, holding her. “Mine,” I say. “Got that?” I kiss her again, this time harder, swiping my tongue against hers. She melts against me, momentarily giving in to my kiss. Too soon, she pulls away.

She turns on her heel, leaving me without saying goodbye.

I want to pull her back, argue with her, hold her, anything.

I can’t. I have a plane to catch.

And she needs time.

I let her go.

The flight to New York turns my stomach in knots. Not only am I doing something that will put me on seriously thin ice with Liam, but I’m facing my mom for the first time since I left. And meeting my brother for the first time.

CHAPTER 25

Haze

I renta cheap car that will fit in around my old stomping grounds, the government-funded housing the rest of the Bronx calls the projects. Living here is what led me to becoming a builder. A neighbor who ran a framing crew offered me a job one day and I kinda fell into things.

He’d be shocked if he saw me now—flying helicopters to private islands to build futuristic buildings we never could have dreamed of living in back then.

I pass his place as I head to Mom’s. Too soon, I’m standing at the red door with its peeling paint and crooked numbers. One number plate is missing.

The address is technically 1134, but it only contains two ones and a three. Her name,Sharon Harden,is etched into a gold nameplate I created as a Mother’s Day gift some time ago when I lived here.

She knows I’m coming since I called ahead, so I let myself in. Holding that brass doorknob in my hand, memories come rushing back. Too many bad ones for me to want to be here right now. I swallow the tightness from my throat and open the door.

The first thing that hits me is how dimly lit she keeps the house and the familiar scent of mothballs and dust and Pall Malls.

Clearly expecting me, Mom sits on her worn plaid couch, one long, shapely leg crossed over the other. A ladder creeps up her sheer black tights. An unlit cigarette is between her fingers, and her red nail polish is chipping. Her hair is bleached and broken at its tortured ends.

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