“I’m not a good guy. But I’m not that man anymore either. I did everything I could to get out of the lifestyle and start over. You, of all people, should understand the dedication that required.”
He continues dissecting me beneath his gaze, his thoughts loud but undecipherable. “She’ll hate you before she ever attempts to love you again.”
“I can live with that. But I won’t live without her. I promise you I’ll rain hell down on everyone until I get a chance to redeem myself. And I’m a man of my word, Torian.”
“I’m beginning to see that.” He grabs his lapels to straighten his jacket. “I’m assuming you love her back?”
I stiffen, every muscle, every limb.
I’m getting somewhere here. I’m winning him over. I’m not going to lie, though.
“No,” I answer simply. “What I feel for her doesn’t represent the whimsical bullshit people brag about.”
“Then why the fuck would I—”
“Because she fucking consumes me,” I snarl through clenched teeth. “She destroys me. Rips me apart and leaves me weak. Every thought I have is savaged by her. Every breath is tainted with her scent. What I feel for her is more than the bullshit of love. It’s something you wouldn’t understand and couldn’t comprehend.”
He raises a brow, mocking me. “Nice speech.”
My anger spikes. I glance for the gun, itching to sweep it off the ground.
“I suggest you leave it where it is. Especially when I’m finally starting to not want you dead.” He waves a lazy hand toward my face. “You’re lucky I recognize the pussy-whipped expression. You’re also fortunate I have plans for your family and no patience to babysit her while they unfold.”
“With all due respect, don’t you think it’s a little late for babysitting? You should’ve told her before you made a move.”
His left eye twitches, the seconds passing in reignited hostility before he states simply, “I was yet to make a move, Langston. Do I look like the type who would repay what Emmanuel has done with a friendly bullet wound?”
“Then who—”
“Who’s to say he didn’t do it to himself? It got us all here, didn’t it? It gave him the attention I’ve learned he craves. It also fuels your siblings’ hatred and makes them more inclined to follow Emmanuel’s lead.”
“Maybe you’re right. But what does that mean for Layla?”
“It means I’ll give you what you want. At least partially, anyway. You’ve got thirty days.”
I pause, waiting for a catch.
The bait and switch.
“An entire month where you can do your best to win her back, because yes, I agree she deserves happiness, and it’s been clear for a while that she won’t find it with us in Portland.” He steps threateningly close, causing Layla’s screams to reignite. “But if you hurt her. If you fail to keep her safe—”
“I won’t.”
“Good.” He strides for his gun and bends to pick it up before shoving the weapon inside his jacket. “Because no words can describe the fun things I’ll do to you if you don’t.”
“What happens after thirty days?”
He shrugs. “If you win her over, she’s yours. I won’t get in the way. She’ll be your responsibility and you’ll get no trouble from me.”
“And if I don’t?”
“For your sake, I wouldn’t let that be an option.” He strolls back toward me, giving me a demeaning clap on the chest. “Make her happy, otherwise it’ll be the last thing you fail at achieving. Hear me?”
I raise my chin. “I hear you.”
He passes me, continuing toward the Lincoln. “Now, I think it’s time you two were formally introduced, don’t you? It’s only fair that she learns she’s going to be spending her days with the Butcher Boys of Baltimore.”
This story will be continued in…
Ruthless Redemption
If you haven’t already read the other books in the Hunting Her world make sure you go back to where it all began with Hunter. Turn the page for a preview.
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1
Her
The weight of a psychopath’s gaze rests heavy at the back of my neck. He’s watching me, stalking me, probably already fantasizing about how my bones will break under his fists.
I fight to contain a smile and cross my legs, allowing the hem of my skin-tight skirt to hitch higher along my thighs.
Every move I make is strategic, every slow blink, every bated breath, every swipe of my lace glove-covered fingers along my exposed neck.
I’ve practiced this a million times. I always do, because this needs to be perfect. Second chances are for the unprepared, and I’m anything but.
My auburn wig is for his benefit—the brown contact lenses, bright red lipstick, and fuck-me boots, too. Tonight, I’m an actress, and my role is that of a novice escort—his ultimate temptation.
I stir the toothpick-speared olive around in my martini glass, feigning loneliness.
My mark, Dan Roberts, has to be beside himself with interest, salivating, his palms itching, his cock hardening. He’s picturing his hands around my throat, anticipating how hard he’d have to squeeze, and for how long, before I lost consciousness.
I know this because I’ve watched him for weeks. He’s become predictable. All those nights spent in the shadows, stalking him as he stalked other women, has paid off. And it could’ve been just as easy for the local Portland police to track his crimes, if they’d bothered to take the word of numerous beaten women over the statement from a rich senator’s son.
Only they didn’t.
Their pockets had been lined with so much green that the evidence didn’t matter anymore. Fake alibis were taken as legitimate accounts. Photographs of beaten, bruised, and broken bodies were discarded, just like good ol’ Danny boy had done with the women he’d tormented once he’d gained his sadistic fix.
This man is a criminal.
A vile waste of oxygen.
A pathetic piece of garbage.
And apparently, I’m the only one with enough devotion to take out the trash.
From the corner of my eye, I see him approach, stopping directly beside my perch on a cracked leather stool. He jerks his chin at the young female bartender and slides his hand over the scratched wooden bar. “Whiskey.” His voice is loud, with an undertone of control.
He loves control.
Lives for it.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye and see no beauty in what people have described as a handsome man. His pale skin is smooth, his raven hair clean-cut and combed. Dark eyelashes frame what I know are deep brown irises, and his lips are lush and inviting. Or they would be, if I didn’t know he was a few Froot Loops short of a carton.
I scoot forward on my stool to place my drink on the bar, but deliberately miss my target. The glass topples, the liquid racing toward the man’s hand.
I lunge for his wrist, pushing it out of the way to save his immaculate suit, and exaggerate my loss of balance. I topple, my shoulder ramming into him, my stool knocking his. “Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry.”