Page 75 of Traitor

Maybe this will.

Maybe when I watch him suffer, when I see that look in his eyes — the one I wore the night he branded me, the night he sent me to my own personal hell — maybe then, I'll finally be able to breathe again.

Maybe then, I can finally move on. Not sure if I even want to.

Love is a dead thing in me. My last boyfriend lasted two months before he broke up with me, told me I was just using him for sex. He wasn't wrong. Whatever part of me was capable of deep, soul-binding love died that night. And it never came back.

I haven't heard from Bones since Tuesday. I know exactly why.

The coffee.

Ria made a batch of special coffee syrup for me because I had a feeling I'd get the chance to use it. And when he showed up at my door, I couldn't fucking resist.

Still, I wasn't expecting what came next. Thursday morning, and again today, little gifts appeared on my porch.

Belgian chocolate. An exquisite Salvador Dalí print.

Each with a stupid little note, saying how hecan't wait to see me again, blah blah blah.

The bastard is playing dirty. He knows I don't waste food. He knows I have an obsession with Dalí. He picked exactly what I could never bring myself to throw away or destroy.

Joke's on him.

Ria ate the chocolate while we sat in her shop, discussing my plans for his demise. The print? I gave it to Amy, my assistant. She practically squealed with excitement.

Now, the lasagna has been in the oven for fifteen minutes already. The table is set. The stage is ready.

Then — the knock comes.

Heavy. Strong. Confident. Like the man on the other side is ready to break down my door if there's no answer.

I school my expression, smooth out my dress, and open it.

And there he is.

Bones.

A massive bouquet in one hand, an obnoxiously expensive bottle of wine in the other.

"Hello, Ely," he says, voice low, reverent, his eyes drinking me in like he's a man dying of thirst and I'm the only drop of water left in the world. "You look breathtaking."

Bleah.

"Thank you," I say, voice soft, sweet and innocent as I take the flowers. "These are beautiful. Come in."

I turn before he can respond, and he follows.

Like a moth to a flame.

Like a lamb to slaughter.

I move to the kitchen, placing the flowers in water with steady hands, feeling his presence behind me like a storm waiting to break.

"The lasagna will be ready in a few minutes," I say, casually arranging the stems. "We can try the wine while we wait."

He looks massive in my small kitchen. All muscle, all dominance, all control. His cut is stretched tight over his broad chest, his black T-shirt hugs his biceps, his dark hair is perfectly disheveled. And a steely, focused look glints in his eyes — like he's gearing up for battle. Too bad for him that I'm not a warlord. I'm a lady. And I fight just like one.

I smile. Because I play my role perfectly.

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