“My only confidence comes from knowing Emmanuel won’t let this slide. He’ll do to her what he did to Grace. And not just Layla, but Stella, too.”
I gasp.
“Layla?” Matthew calls out.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Layla.”
This time my name is a command. An impatient warning.
I straighten my shoulders and raise my chin as I continue into view.
The two men stand at the dining table. Tall. Commanding. Aggressive.
Matthew has the sense to look somewhat apologetic beneath the frustration tightening his features. But Bishop, like always, isn’t welcoming.
He gives me a dismissive glance before returning his attention to the man who deceived me. “What are we going to do?”
Matthew ignores him and starts toward me. “Good, you’re dressed. We’ve got a big day ahead.” He speaks as if things between us are normal. As if he hasn’t pummeled the walls of our relationship and left the bricks to fall upon me.
“Don’t,” I warn. “Don’t you dare come near me.”
He complies, rooting his feet in place and raising his chin while I stride toward my cell on the coffee table.
“Your breakfast is on the counter. You need to eat.”
I maneuver the suitcase around the sofa, bumping into the armrest, and release the handle to snatch for my phone.
One call and Cole will make this right. Him, Hunter, Decker and Luca. They’ll fix this mess with blood and broken bones… and hate me more while doing it.
I shove the device in my pocket, the knife still at the ready, and wheel my suitcase out from where I came to make for the entry hall.
“You can’t leave.” Matthew’s gaze haunts me from my periphery.
I keep walking, striding out the distance to freedom.
“Layla, stop.”
My body wants to obey. There’s no rhyme or reason, but every muscle tenses at his command, including my heart.
“Let me explain what’s going on.”
He continues toward me, the dwindling space between us causing me to panic. Not from fear of physical pain, but from that of pure emotional torture.
I can’t be near him. Can’t let him get within reach.
I run, my black Converse Chucks squeaking against the tiles, my suitcase wheels clicking.
He gives chase, his heavy footfalls thunderous behind me as I reach the door and drop the knife to wrench at the dead bolt.
The metal clatters at my feet while I snatch at the handle. Twist. Pull.
The crack of freedom brings hope, the euphoria snatched away when his heavy palm slaps against the wood, slamming the door closed, his body caging me from behind.
“Let me leave.” I cling to the handle, twisting and tugging.
“I’m not that person,” he growls near my ear. “I’m not one of them.”
The words whisper over my neck, poking infected wounds. Memories of him speaking against my neck in better times haunt me, crawling under my skin like torturous bugs.
“You’re a monster.” I pull and yank and thrash at the handle, willing it to open.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t lift his splayed hand from against the wood.
“I’ll explain everything later,” he vows. “Once it’s just the two of us.”
“Later?” I swing around to face him only to jerk back at the stifling proximity.
He’s there. Right there. Dark eyes manic. Stubble harsh. Face severe.
“You want to talk to me later?” I seethe. “Because it’s easier for you to lie when we’re alone?”
“I haven’t lied.”
“Not once have you told the whole truth,” I shriek.
We stare each other down, my chest rising and falling from a body demanding punishment, his warm breath taunting my lips.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t free me from the cage of his arms. All he does is look at me as if he’ll tear the world to shreds if I escape. Like he’ll lose his mind if I walk from his life, never to return.
It hurts.
His confusing suffering. His unsettling battle.
I want to soothe him and stab him all at once.
“Leave the suitcase.” He straightens, his order blanketed with a subtle level of control. “Go eat breakfast.”
I rage, wanting to yell at the top of my lungs. To claw at the severity in his eyes. To steal the oxygen from the air to dispel his intoxicating aftershave while suffocating us both.
“I’m not staying.” I swing back to the door and snatch at the handle, turning the metal toward freedom, erupting with relief when it opens.
He steps into me, the wall of pressure smothering my spine as he slams the wood shut with a chest-rattling snarl.
“I’ll scream,” I warn.
“You don’t want to do that.” He presses into me, his hard body grazing my ass.
The threat is clear in his voice. The pure conviction. But my blood doesn’t react in fear.
It warms.
My pulse throbs.
My body still reacts to our chemistry. Succumbing. Yearning.
“You’re threatening me?” I turn again, this time concentrating on my hatred when I look him in the eye.
He’s even closer now, our noses almost brushing as he intimidates me in the cage of his arms.
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he purrs. “We’re not done, Layla.”
So be it.
I force a smile. Bat my lashes. Pray to God I’m not making another mistake. Then launch my knee at his groin, making direct impact.
Shock splashes his face. Eyes wide. Mouth, too.
He grunts.
Crumples.
My regret hits just as fast, the remorse heavy enough to suffocate.
I don’t let it consume me. I scramble for the door, swinging it wide, leaving the suitcase behind. I’m one step over the threshold when I’m viciously yanked backward by a painful grip on my upper arm, then dragged into an entirely different body.
“My turn,” Bishop seethes. “And let me warn you, I’m far less patient.”
31
Layla
I’m shoved onto the sofa, my suitcase left at the door, my cell confiscated.
Bishop scowls at me from a few feet away, the minutes passing in silence until Matthew limps into the living room. His shoulders hunch as he makes his way to the kitchen to lean heavily into the island counter.
“I knew we had secrets, but I underestimated just how many.” His voice is graveled as he clings to the marble, his face now a paler shade of sun-kissed beauty. “You should’ve told me your grievance with the Costas had nothing to do with dating Remy or Salvatore.”
I remain quiet, my hands in my lap, my eyes glaring in rage.
“What reason did you have to keep the details of your daughter’s abduction and husband’s murder from me?”
I flinch at the ease with which he relays my nightmares. The simplicity. The lack of emotion.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I scoff, finding him sickeningly self-righteous for asking about my skeletons when his pile far higher.
“Why pretend you’d had a love affair?” he continues. “Why allude to being a past lover?”
“I didn’t allude to anything. You assumed.”