Page 51 of Ruthless Redemption

“Suffering is such an easy word for what I feel.” She holds me in place with her hollow gaze. “Do you want to know what I wanted to do once the thrill wore off last night? Once I did the walk of shame from the dining room and came in here to be alone?”

“You wanted to kill me.”

“No.” She shakes her head, her tongue snaking out to lick her drying lips. “I wanted to killme.”

My stomach hollows. Fucking bottoms.

“For a split second, I wanted out of this mess. Permanently.” Her face scrunches as she struggles to keep her voice steady. “I wanted to make everyone’s life easier by taking my own.”

I clench my fists.

Idid this.

I did something far worse than Emmanuel ever did to me.

“So, I’m begging you, please stop.” She straightens her shoulders. “Quit fighting me, give me what you’ve promised, then let me go.”

11

LAYLA

“As you wish,amore mio.”

That’s all he says before turning on his heel to leave the room.

I expected him to put up a fight. Or flirt. Or beg for forgiveness.

Instead, he let two days pass with nothing more than murmured greetings or well-mannered questions when we happened to cross paths, which isn’t often.

He’s kept his distance, allowing me to recover the slightest semblance of pride after spewing my truth at him. He’s spent the time on his phone, pacing the deck, his conversations easily overheard from my bedroom as he talks strategy about Emmanuel.

I assume it’s for my benefit that he’s remained out of reach yet within listening range.

He’s assembled a team in Denver. I think it’s the same men who helped us get onto the Costa family property last week, but I’m not willing to start a conversation to confirm.

It’s best to remain alone.

Whenever Matthew’s in the kitchen, I escape to my bedroom. While he’s in the living room, I waste hours on the deck.

My packages started to arrive yesterday, giving me something to do while isolated. I’ve received a mass of cosmetics, books, and lingerie. But no clothes have shown up, which means I’ve been forced to wear Bishop’s T-shirts to bed and the same worn jeans and blouse during the day.

“Your drinking hours are getting longer.” Bishop climbs the deck stairs with a judgmental glower.

I glance at my wine glass, the liquid glistening in the beaming sun as I laze on the outdoor lounge chair.

“Should I be worried?” he asks. “Is this yet another attribute I didn’t know about like the knife-and-blood kink?”

“Go to hell.”

Unlike Matthew, Bishop hasn’t given me a wide berth. He’s done the opposite, always checking to make sure I’ve eaten, his annoying face constantly poking into my room to see if I’m still alive.

I take another sip of chardonnay, focusing my annoyance at the ocean. “I don’t have kinks.” And it’s midafternoon, for Christ’s sake. It’s a socially acceptable time to drink.

“Sorry, am I using the wrong term?” He stops a few feet away and leans his hip against the railing. “Kink… Fetish… Perversion… They all mean the same thing to me.”

“What do you want?” I glare.

“I just thought I’d let you know Langston left thirty minutes ago.”

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