Page 93 of The Prodigal

“Yes. Congressman Albrecht would do anything to keep a scandal quiet.”

It isn’t the easiest thing to admit.

She stands as the first tear streaks down her cheek. “You didn’t save me because you were a nice guy. You saved me to earn my trust.”

That’s not entirely true. I helped her because Gerald had no business putting his hands on her. But it’ll be easier for her to move on if she thinks it was all part of the plan.

“I tried to warn you that I wasn’t a good man.”

A mocking laugh escapes her still-quivering lips. “You did. You can rest easy knowing this is all my own doing. I am the stupid girl who thought you were different.”

Her hands fold across her chest as invisible walls go up between us. It’s more painful than a burn.

“I’m so sorry,” I say. “I never meant for this to happen.”

“Yeah, you did. After all, you had a plan.”

But falling for her wasn’t part of it.

Instead of using her, I want to protect her.

And I am. She just can’t understand it right now.

“I’ll take you to the airport and buy you a plane ticket back home.”

It’s like the world just crumbles around her as she drops to the ground, burying her face in her knees. “You know what, Remington?”

My breath catches in my throat as her glassy eyes lift to mine.

“All this time you were punishing the wicked by sacrificing the innocent. Congratulations, you’re no better than Albrecht.”

Remington

Forgiveness is fear.

It’s a one-sided commitment with an uncertain future.

And it terrifies me.

Who is Remington Potter without hate and vengeance? Do I even know? Of course not. Because soon, there won’t be a Remington Potter.

“It’s time to go,” I bark, marching across the sand to where Eden sits with red eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

I’ve given her several hours to curse me in silence.

“You can finish hating me 43,000 feet in the air.”

Her head snaps up, and she levels me with a glare. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Unfortunately,” I clip, “you don’t get a fucking choice.”

She swings her arm out to hit me, but I easily sidestep the blow. “Just leave me alone.”

“I would,” I tell her. “But I’m in no mood to file a missing person report when you’ve been kidnapped and tied to someone’s bedpost.”

“What do you care?”

I narrow my eyes in warning. “I don’t. I care about me and not spending twenty-five to life behind bars because someone was foolish enough to touch you.”

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