Page 67 of Crush (Deadly Hearts 1)

ChapterThirty-Five

Ruby

Sitting at my desk, I twirl the knife in my hand. It’s the pretty Pangolin Ramsey gave me for my birthday. I run my thumb over the sharp edge and wonder what it would feel like slicing into my skin, making me bleed.

I lift my dress up my thighs, scowling at the bullet graze wound. It’s starting to ache again now. Maybe I need to try Ramsey’s method of pain killer. Taking a deep breath, I press the edge of the blade to the soft skin of my inner thigh.

“It’s not as much fun if you do it yourself,” Layton’s voice comes through the open doorway quietly.

“Should’ve shut that,” I grit out, but slide the knife back into the holster. That dark shit isn’t for anyone else to witness. It’s my own secret hell and no one gets to be a part of it. “Who’s watching the door?”

“David has me on the walkie if shit kicks off. I need to be up here right now,” he replies, sitting down.

“I’m okay,” I say. “Honestly. I am. It’s my own fault for being fool enough to think he was mine.”

“He is yours,” he replies, surprising me.

“Oh?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

“I’m playing Devil’s advocate,” he says with that sexy smirk. “He is currently drowning his sorrows downstairs and is about to do something really fucking stupid. Yes, what he did was bad, but you didn’t even know him then. Why does it hurt so much?”

“Because he told her things about himself. I know fuck all. Fuck. All.” I get angry all over again. It isn’t even about the sex. So, he has a past. So do I. So does Scarlet. Who gives a shit who banged who way back when? It’s the fact that she knows him, and I don’t.

“Why haven’t you asked him?” Layton’s reasonable question pisses me off.

“Haven’t had time,” I snap.

“And that’s his fault?”

“Why are you siding with him? You’re supposed to have my back.”

“I do have your back. I’m trying to fix this because whatever it is he gives you, you need. Is it worth losing him over this?”

“I don’t need him,” I say petulantly, but we both know it’s a lie.

I heave an annoyed breath and ask, “What’s he about to do?”

“He is talking about bringing you Jake’s head on a platter. Seeing as he is who he is, I’m taking that he means it literally. Now, ordinarily I probably wouldn’t interfere, but he is three sheets to the wind on Irish Whisky and he’ll fuck it up. Go and talk to him.”

“And say what?” I ask with a huff.

“Whatever it is you’re feeling.”

“Why are you so rational?”

“It’s part of my charm,” he drawls.

“Ugh!” I exclaim. “Send him up. I don’t need a big, fat mess to clean up even if it does mean Jake ends up at the bottom of the ship canal.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” he chuckles and stands up.

I give him a sly look then. “Seems you have an admirer,” I say, almost with a tinge of accusation.

His eyes narrow and he leans down, placing his massive hands on the desk between us. “What are you insinuating?”

I shiver at the menace emanating from him. It’s turning me on in all sorts of fucked up ways.

I meet his eyes dead on. “That you’d better behave, or it’ll be your head on a platter,” I say, slowly standing up.

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