Page 129 of Seeking Vengeance

She storms toward me, blade raised in threat, while her other hand reaches into the robe pocket. “Explain this.” She throws something at me, the small projectile hitting my chest before ricocheting to the floor. “And this.” She grabs something else, throwing that, too.

I drag my gaze from the pain I created, the anger I deserve, and take in the items she continues to launch at me.

Lipstick.

Concealer.

A packet of tissues.

“Explain, you fucking son of a bitch.” She holds up her ID. “How did you get this?”

I close my eyes, stealing the briefest second of respite from her suffering before I return my gaze to hers. “It’s not what you think. I didn’t—”

“You didn’t what?” Her eyes spark like the devil. “You didn’t play me from the moment we met,Dante?”

I clench my fists, wanting to slaughter Remy for what he’s caused.

“Oh, shit.” The fucker snickers. “The cat’s really out of the bag.”

“Listen to me.” I step closer, needing her to understand. To think clearly. “This is what I wanted to discuss.” I grab her wrist, hoping touch will help her remember our connection.

“Let me go.” She fights my hold. Twisting. Tugging.

Fuck.

I loosen my grip.

She yanks to free herself, her hand sliding through mine. The ID gets caught as she tussles, falling to the floor.

“Goddamnit.” She stabs the knife toward my face with a glare and bends to pick it up.

Remy’s closer. He rolls onto his stomach and snatches at the flimsy plastic.

“No,” she warns. “Don’t.”

I step between them, ignoring her weapon, willing to endure a stab wound if it means keeping that prick away from her.

“Stop.” She barges into me.

“Layla Hart… Portland, Oregon,” he murmurs to himself. “Why do I feel like I should recognize that name?”

I’d like to know, too.

“Give it back,” she screams. “Now.”

For weeks, Bishop has attempted to discover the connection between them, every turn coming up empty. There was no lead toward a romantic relationship with either of my brothers. No evidence of business ties, either.

“Layla Hart,” Remy repeats, his scrutinizing gaze rising to her as he lumbers to his feet. “Layla from Portland, Oregon.”

She stiffens. Swallows.

“Jesus Christ. You’re a Torian.” He stalks forward, his shoulders straightening in menace. “You fucking bitch.”

“I’m a fucking bitch?” She lunges forward with the knife. “How dare you?”

I turn my back toward her blade, certain she wants to embed it between my ribs, and shove at Remy’s shoulders. “Get the fuck away from her.”

He glowers at me, then her, his fury finally settling on my face. “How could you be with her after what she’s done?”

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