Page 42 of Ruthless Redemption

It’s a ratio I don’t understand and can’t fucking balance.

I right my pants as her door slams down the hall, then lean my hands against the blood-smeared counter while silence takes over the house.

She’s goddamn stubborn. But so am I.

Footsteps echo from downstairs, the noise getting closer until Bishop stalks into the room to throw a brown paper bag at me. “Here’s your lunch, you perverted prick.”

I snatch the projectile from the air, the soft food inside scrunching on impact.

He stalks to the opposite side of the island counter to glare at me. “I hope you choke.”

“Duly noted.”

“What the fuck is with the blood?”

I glance down at my torso. Her handprints are plastered over my chest, the crimson beginning to harden and flake. “What can I say? We discovered new kinks.”

“That arm is going to need stitches.”

“I’ll handle it.”

He scoffs. “So she’s forgiven you?”

“Hardly.” I open the bag to find numerous paper-wrapped sandwiches. “We need to get back on track with Emmanuel. I promised her we’d make plans over dinner tonight.”

“Then go back on your promise. We both know he’s a complication we don’t need.”

“He’s a loose end we need to tie.” I dump the bag on the counter and trek to the pantry to grab the first aid kit.

“What about your promise to me? You said we weren’t going to live like this anymore. We gave up the bloodshed, remember? Now you’re having sex in it.”

I remember.

All too well.

“Admit you miss the thrill,” he demands.

“I don’t.” I dump the kit on the counter and go in search of alcohol. The only thrill is Layla. She’s the one who brings the adrenaline. There’s no darkness involved. Only the warmth that accompanies the thought of making her happy.

It’s not my fault her happiness revolves around death.

“Bullshit.”

“I’m not in the mood, Bishop.” I wrench open the liquor cabinet and snatch the last bottle of Macallan. “Take the food to her. Make sure she’s okay.”

“Hell no. I’m not stepping foot near that woman while you’re like this.”

I hang my head, the weight in my hands falling limp at my sides. I’m at my wit’s end here, and the ache from my compounding blue balls isn’t making my impatience to win her back any easier. “She needs to eat.”

“And I need to live.”

I swing around to scowl at him. He glares right back.

“This shit with her needs to end,” he warns. “You’re reaching the edge.”

“Then don’t push me any further.” I shove the paper bag toward him, then start for the hall with the first aid and alcohol. “Take the fucking food to her. She doesn’t deserve to starve.”

By nightfall,my blood is tinged with the faintest hint of scotch, the liquor doing nothing to quieten my demons as I sit on the deck in the dark.

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