Page 117 of Ruthless Redemption

LAYLA

I rakea hand through his hair, our legs tangled, our naked bodies splayed on the bed as I stare into his eyes.

We’ve been like this for almost half an hour.

Quiet. Relaxed. No words. Just touch.

But bliss can’t last forever.

I suck in a deep breath, letting it out on a long exhale. “What about my family?”

“Hmm?” He raises a brow, his fingers continuing their lazy circles along my hip. “What about them?”

“You painted a picture of our future earlier, but only Stella was involved. What about the rest of my family?”

“I didn’t mention the rest of your family because I don’t want to play a role in dictating that part of your life. It’s yours to decide.”

I push onto one elbow. “And if I decide I want to live in Portland?”

“Then we figure out how to live in Portland.”

“Is that possible? Can you be civil with Cole after everything that’s happened?”

“Sure.” He smirks. “As long as I’m heavily medicated for the duration. But I’m more worried about how you’re going to get along with him.”

Me too.

I’m going to have to call him. And soon.

“Don’t worry. I can be civil for you.” He grabs my hand, dragging it to his lips to kiss my fingertips. My palm. “I can be civil because although I don’t respect most of the decisions he’s recently made on your behalf, we wouldn’t be here without them.”

I rest back into the pillows and snuggle into him. “He hurt me.”

“I know. I’m sure he regrets it as much as I do.”

I become lost in contemplation, our lazy silence stretching until his brothers return, their voices carrying from the living room.

“I need to check on them.” Matthew pushes from the bed to tug on his clothes. “I’ll bring you something to eat.”

“It’s okay. I’ll follow you after I take a shower.”

I make an effort not to hide in the bedroom for the rest of the day. I lounge on the sofa, my gaze affixed to the news broadcast on the television while my ears stay attuned to Remy and Salvatore’s conversation at the dinner table.

They haven’t discussed anything to trigger my paranoia. They speak loud enough to be heard, but always on topics that reaffirm their story.

They contemplate their future. They worry about the fallout. They fret about Abri.

The more I listen, the more I buy in to their situation, despite hating every step I take toward belief.

Matthew makes a million calls, his excursions out to the deck for privacy always bringing him back to me where he murmurs intel to validate their claims.

He finds supporting evidence of a substantial family trust. His bank contacts verify none of the Costa siblings have access to cash accounts. And someone Matthew knew in high school confirms there were once rumors that Remy lost his virginity in his early teens at a strip club.

Their story checks out. For the most part. But I still try to pick it apart all afternoon.

By the time night falls, I’m neck-deep in brain fog, my mind entirely exhausted when the doorbell rings.

“Who’s here?” I push from the sofa, the gun in the back of my jeans digging into my spine.

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