Page 226 of Never Fall for an Angel

“I heard they have homes for people like you. A place where you can get the help you need with your delusions. But . . . of course . . . you would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

“What do you want?” he grits, and I can hear him shaking through the phone. He’s pissed.

Good. I am, too.

I can’t help but smirk.

“Retribution.”

“You know I’m going to find your pretty little wife, right? No amount of guards or money can keep me away. I could walk through your front door right now if I wanted. I’ll make what happened to our mother look like child’s play when I’m done with her this time.”

“You would know all about what happened to our mother, wouldn’t you, Sebastian?”

“And I’ll enjoy doing the same thing to your whore when I find her. Tell me, does Mila still think about me?”

Violence slips through me in waves.

If he were here right now, I’d rip his throat out.

“You want to know the difference between you and me, Sebastian?”

“Aftershave?”

“While you’re sitting in your little rundown warehouse, contemplating how you can get everything I already have . . . I’m plotting your death while Mila’s asleep in my bed.

He’s silent on the other end of the line, and I can’t help but smile wickedly because I know the fucker’s getting redder and redder by the moment.

“That what you want to hear? The way I fuck her every night? The way she clings to me as if she can’t get enough?”

“When I find her, I’ll make you regret the day you stole from me,” he says, voice dark and malignant. “And my only hope is for you to live long enough to watch me pass her around to my men. Hard to find good whores nowadays.”

I chuckle darkly, scrubbing a hand over my jaw.

“What you fail to realize is that as long as I’m alive? You’ll never get the chance.”

Click

I look to Levi across the room.

“Did we get it?”

He smiles a toothy, wicked grin.

“Got him.”

MILA

It’s after midnight when Christian comes home. He takes one look at me, sitting in the living room, dressed in a silk robe, and crosses through to the kitchen.

Old Mila would sit and stew in our argument, but new Mila stands from her place in front of the fireplace and follows him. In the kitchen, I find him pouring a glass of whiskey before he plops down at the kitchen table.

He doesn’t look up when I enter, but his spine stiffens like someone’s jammed a steel rod down his shirt.

“If it’s a fight you’re after, I’m not in the mood, Mila.”

“Me either.”

It’s not a lie. I’m not in the mood to fight with him.

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