Page 127 of Seeking Vengeance

Normal things.Innocentthings.

I pull out the second and the third drawer. Socks and underwear fall to the floor. Stupid typical items that deny me the proof of Remy’s claims.

I scan under the bed. Nothing.

I scramble to the adjoining bathroom, checking the cupboards and drawers to no avail.

I run for his wardrobe, shoving aside hanging shirts. Kicking away shoes. Throwing and heaving sweaters. I move from one row of shelves to the next, yanking everything from its neatly folded place. The jeans. The gym tanks.

Row after row.

Shelf after shelf.

I don’t stop until a pile of clothes lay strewn on the floor. Then I climb, reaching for the stack of blankets lying dormant on the top ledge. They sail through the air behind me, one after another until my fingers no longer feel material and instead skim cardboard.

I stretch higher, struggling on the tips of my toes, my robe gaping, my sanity failing.

My fingertips brush the corner of a box and I hold my breath as I strain to inch it into sight. Shift by incremental shift, I edge it toward me, my arms straining over my head, my body aching from the uncomfortable pull of muscle.

Once it’s close enough, I wiggle it, the light weight sliding onto my palm. I descend, dragging it with me until one foot slips its perch on the shelf and I jostle to remain upright.

I lose my hold on the shoe box, the lid slipping free before the items inside topple to the pile of clothes on the floor.

“Shit.” I jump down, determined to find what I’m looking for when my gaze catches hold of the contents scattered before me.

My pulse thunders in my ears. My throat. My stomach.

I feel it everywhere, the booming beat pounding through every inch of me.

But it’s not evidence of Remy’s accusation that litters the carpet around me.

It’s worse.

My ID.

My credit cards.

My lipstick and pens and hair ties.

All the things that had been in my purse when I’d been mugged in Denver. Even the small vial of cyanide.

29

Matthew

I juggleto hold the tray of takeaway coffee cups and the oversized bag of food as I shove into the penthouse. “I’m back.”

I should’ve stayed outside longer. Should’ve taken more time to chill the fuck out and strategize my next move. But Layla had already been suspicious when I left, her eyes reading the mood I couldn’t hide.

I kick the door closed behind me and start for the kitchen, stopping dead in my tracks at the sight of the asshole sitting on my sofa, one leg crossed over his knee in relaxation, his arms spread along the headrest.

Fuck.

I scan the room, looking for her, praying she fell back asleep while he somehow broke inside.

“Where is she?” I force calm as I continue to the counter, dumping my haul from the cafe.

He raises a brow, smug. “You mean the woman you’ve been playing?” He jerks his head back toward the hall. “I assume it’s your bedroom she escaped into,Matthew.”

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