Ruthless Redemption (Hunting Duet Book 2) Read online

  I pause at the first step and indicate with a wave of a hand for her to proceed before me.

  She plants her feet. “I’ll follow.”

  No, she’ll run, and I’m more than tempted to let her just for the opportunity to give chase.

  She has no idea of the dangerous response she’s spurring to life inside me. If she knew, her expression would be less defiant and more fearful.

  “Move.” I hold her gaze, daring her to defy me.

  She’s undaunted, maintaining my stare for numerous heartbeats. “You’re such an asshole.” She reaches for the hand rail and climbs the slim staircase to disappear inside.

  “Asshole?” Bishop murmurs as he stands by my side. “I don’t think she fully grasps the description her brother gave.”

  “Don’t cause shit for me.” I keep my focus on the top of the stairs.

  “Cause shit for you?” He gives a derisive huff and takes the first step. “My bad. Here I was thinking you were the one fucking me over with your drama.”

  The slumberous itch of remorse attempts to niggle its way into my chest.

  We fought hard to get away from this lifestyle. To distance ourselves from the devil’s to-do list.

  Now it looks like I’ve dragged us back in.

  But this is temporary.

  I follow him into the jet and jerk my chin in greeting at the copilot who waits at the entrance to the cockpit. “Get us in the air, Malcolm. The sooner, the better.”

  “Will do, sir.” He drags the staircase inside and shuts the door behind me, enclosing us in a volatile capsule of aggression and hatred.

  Bishop starts down the aisle. “I’ll reach out to Irene and make sure the house is stocked and cleaned before we arrive.”

  “Ask her to provide any necessities for our guest.”

  He nods, passing Layla who sits on a window seat in the middle of the cabin.

  The coastal safe house has everything Bishop and I will need—clothes, toiletries, weapons. But I don’t want Layla left wanting. I’m impatient for her forgiveness. And the looming deadline to regain her love is already a tightening noose around my neck.

  I’ve got thirty days. Yet I want to believe I can achieve it in one.

  I take the seat beside her, ignoring her stubborn silence as the jet begins to move. I plan my defense while we remain in a holding pattern near the runway and indulge the quiet she obviously craves as we leave the ground.

  She needs time for her adrenaline to weaken, and I give it to her, allowing her turmoil a chance to settle while we ascend and turn toward the East Coast. I watch her, though. From the corner of my eye, I note the ragged rise and fall of her chest. Her hands rest in her lap, the position seeming like a deliberate show of calm if it weren’t for her constant picking at her fingernails.

  “Have you eaten?” I ask.

  She keeps her gaze straight ahead, unflinching. Mute.

  “We’ve got a lot to discuss, amore mio. I know you’re—”

  “You know nothing,” she grates. “You don’t know what you’ve done. And you sure as shit seem ignorant to how I hold you accountable, otherwise you’d quit pretending we’re not enemies.”

  “I’m well aware of the role I’ve played. I’m only asking for an opportunity to explain.”

  “I’m all out of opportunities. You can go to hell as far as I’m concerned.”

  I’m already there. “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t. Talk. To. Me.” She enunciates the demand slowly. Vehemently.

  I clench my molars. Fine. I’ll give her more time.

  We spend the rest of the flight in silence, her tense posture unfaltering until we land at a small private airport in South Carolina.

  As soon as the copilot opens the door and lowers the stairs, Layla climbs over me like a caged animal finally gaining freedom and exits the jet before I can release my belt.

  By the time I step into the sunlight at the top of the staircase, she’s already seated in the waiting Lincoln on the tarmac. There were no protests. No acts of aggression. Only a one-track mind to get as far away from me as possible.

  I slide into the back seat with her, the quiet continuing from all parties as Bishop drives us toward the beach, the unfettered sunshine and slight warmth in the air doing nothing to soothe the animosity Layla exudes.

  She wants me dead.

  Rightly so.

  I lied. Deceived. Manipulated. But she did, too.

  The wreckage of our relationship lays at both our feet.

  “Irene has cleaned the house and stocked the kitchen.” Bishop meets my gaze in the rearview mirror. “Do you want me to stop to pick up anything else before we arrive?”

  “No.” I’m sure there are a million things I need to organize but my priority is getting Layla alone. The longer her malevolence festers, the more impatient I become.

  I stare out the window, never more thankful for the partial isolation of my coastal property than I am right now. The closest neighbors are half a mile down the road. Layla can let loose and rail on me all she likes without fear of being overheard.

  And she will let loose.

  I can already feel her building detonation.

  “Home sweet home.” Bishop pulls onto a cement drive, pausing before the property gate to tap in the security code, and then we proceed inside.

  We stop before the two-story waterfront house with its sleek architectural lines and L-shaped staircase leading to the upstairs veranda. The property hasn’t changed since we last escaped here two years ago. There are no cobwebs or remnants of autumn leaves. Irene has kept the place immaculate with all the curtains now drawn from the massive panes of unfettered glass, ready for us to arrive.

  Layla doesn’t react to the multimillion-dollar property.

  It isn’t until the car stops and the ignition is cut that she drags in a long breath, releasing it in a heave.

  “I have a question.” She gives me a sideways glare. “Only one. And that’s all I want from you.”

  “Ask.” I tense, anticipating her interest in the negotiation I had with her brother. I won’t lie to her again. But distancing her from that truth will work in my favor.

  “How did you get my things?” She holds my gaze, her eyes narrowed slits. “The items from my purse after I was mugged. How did you get them? When did you get them?”

  Shit.

  She’s gone straight for the jugular of my deception.

  Bishop clears his throat. “I paid someone—”

  “No.” There’s aggression in my voice as I interrupt. A harshness born from frustration over my biggest mistake. I appreciate his willingness to take the blame, but her fury is my punishment to bear. “I can handle this. Layla and I will meet you inside.”

  Bishop stares at me through the rearview mirror, silently warning me of the hostile situation that’s about to erupt.

  I’m fully aware of my fate, asshole.

  “Go.” I jerk my chin. “We won’t be long.”

  He sighs and climbs from the car, shutting the door behind him.

  Layla straightens, as if steeling herself against being alone with me when this used to be her fucking preference.

  “He paid someone?” Her tone is flat, lifeless, along with her expression. “Paid them for what? To find my purse? To retrieve it from a dumpster?”

  “He didn’t pay anyone.” I unclasp my belt, preparing to chase after her. “I did. And it wasn’t a search or retrieval mission.”

  Her brow furrows. She may have been born into a vicious family but apparently, her upbringing wasn’t harsh enough for her to assume how low I would stoop for information.

  “I paid someone to steal your purse, amore mio. I arranged for you to be mugged.”

  She remains rigid.

  The detonation I anticipate waits in a holding pattern while she blinks.

  Once.

  Twice.

  Then the shock wears off with the thinning of her beautiful lips and a fast swallow. She keeps her devastation
tempered, the buffered reaction punishing me more than her rage ever could.

  “You wouldn’t tell me who you were.” It’s a fucking lame excuse. “You used a burner phone. The name you gave the restaurant was fake. I had nothing to—”

  She snaps her gaze from mine, flings her door wide, then slides outside, smacking the door shut behind her. She doesn’t run. Doesn’t flee in a whirlwind of emotion. Instead, she holds her head high and strides for the house, climbing the staircase with grace and dignity.

  I shove from the car. “Layla, wait.”

  She doesn’t.

  “Layla.” I stride after her.

  She needs to understand my reasoning. The necessity.

  She reaches the veranda and yanks open the front door, then slams it in her wake.

  Fuck. I clench a fist, preparing to punch my knuckles through the car window. I anticipate the contact. Already hear the shatter of glass. Feel the distracting pain. It’s a whirlwind of relief just waiting on the edges of my consciousness.

  But I can’t break. I won’t succumb to the easy option.

  I’ve worked hard to overcome my impulses. I’m better than that now. At least, I’m meant to act like I am.

  Problem is, I’d fucking planned to tell her. I had every goddamn intention of laying my cards on the table. Then Remy sent me a text about the shooting and I’d realized too late that my time was up.

  I would’ve explained where I came from. Who my family was—the ones who raised me only to destroy me. I intended to outline all the underhanded tactics I’d used to keep her close. To win her over. To make her mine.

  Then my brother fucked me.

  I climb the stairs and stalk my ass inside.

  The tiled entry sparkles. The scent of lemon cleaning chemicals taints the air. I prowl my way along the cobweb-free hall and into the pristine open living area, every single pane of the floor-to-ceiling glass scuff free.

  The perfection mocks me. It fucking pokes at my inferiority, screaming how unworthy I am.

  Bishop stands in the kitchen, his ass leaning against the island counter as he takes a bite of a half-eaten apple.

  “Where is she?” I ask.

  He jerks his head toward the far hall leading to the bedrooms. “I told her to take the room next to yours.”

  I divert my path in search of her. We’re going to talk this shit through. I’ll justify my actions or die trying.

  I pass my bedroom, then continue to hers and stop before the closed door. I raise my hand to knock, the gentle fall of the shower pattering in the distance. There’s something else, too. A sniffle. The faintest whimper?

  Fuck. Is she crying?

  Her pain is an arrow through my chest.

  “I told you this would happen.” Bishop comes to stand at the start of the hall. “I warned you.”

  I brace my clenched knuckles against her door and hang my head, not daring to look at him for fear of lighting the fuse to my temper.

  “I said she would bring drama.” He approaches. “That she’d be a fucking complication. Now look where we’re at—in the middle of a war that’s not ours with loot that will get us killed.”

  “She’s not loot.” Anger mixes with my self-loathing, the potent concoction warming my veins. I fight to hold myself in check, to calm the devil within.

  “Then what is she? What the fuck have you dragged us into?” Bishop keeps approaching. Keeps taunting. If he’s not careful, he’ll bear the brunt of the madness waging war inside me.

  “What have I dragged us into?” I push from the door and swing around to face him. “None of this would’ve happened if you’d done your job in the first place.”

  “You’re blaming this on me?”

  “Why wouldn’t I? All you had to do was find out why she was spying on Emmanuel at that fucking restaurant. You had one goddamn job.”

  He raises a brow, his lips slowly curling in a threatening smile. “Why don’t we take this outside? I’ll give you the fight you’re itching for.”

  My chest hums, my soul empowered by the offer of violence.

  Pain is exactly what I want. The crunch of bone. The thrill of carnage.

  “I’m not fighting you,” I snarl.

  “Why? You worried I’ll kick your ass?”

  If I thought he could overpower me in my current state, I’d welcome the threat. I’d accept the hospitality of his beating and hope he knocked me out cold. But the opposite will happen.

  “No.” I dig my fingers into my palms, wishing the need for brutality would lessen. All it does is build. Morph. Punish. “I’m more concerned I won’t stop until I kill you.”

  He straightens. Sobers.

  He knows I’m not exaggerating.

  He squares his shoulders, tightens his jaw. “If that’s the case, you shouldn’t be anywhere near her.”

  The caution pokes my self-loathing higher, making it dance with my rage.

  I’d never hurt her… not physically… at least, not by my own hand.

  Fuck.

  All I’ve done is hurt her.

  Emotionally. Physically. I arranged to have her mugged, which left her injured. I’ve destroyed the ties that bind her to her family. I’ve devastated her confidence and shattered her trust.

  Have I ruined her just like Emmanuel ruined me?

  “Take a walk.” Bishop’s expression tightens. “Clear your head. I don’t know what the fuck you said to Torian to have him handing over his sister, but we’ll discuss it later. Right now, you need to pull yourself together before this situation gets more out of hand. Scaring her isn’t going to work in your favor.”

  “She isn’t scared of me.” I’ve caused frustration, hatred, loathing, disgust. But never her fear.

  “No, but she should be.”

  Another muted sniffle comes from her room, stabbing more jagged arrows through my chest.

  She has to understand my motives.

  She needs to fucking listen.

  “Walk, Langston. I’ll keep an eye on her until you return.”

  3

  MATTHEW

  I walked.

  I gave her time.

  Three fucking days to be exact. I played the role of personal chef, supplying every meal to her bedroom only to be forced to leave it on a tray in the hall because she wouldn’t unlock the door.

  She won’t talk to me. Acknowledge me.

  I left her a new toothbrush, shampoo, and soap, yet I get nothing in return. Not even a grunt or a curse.

  I’m sure she knows it’s driving me insane.

  During the day, I spend hours sitting on the floor in my room, my back to our adjoining wall, listening to her occasional footsteps as I drink scotch from the bottle.

  The nights are worse. That’s when I sit in the darkness of the deck, my attention firmly affixed on her silhouette through the sheer curtains behind the French doors leading to her room.

  I’m starved for the sight of her. I need to see those emotive eyes. Hear that haunting voice. Every minute that ticks by is another wasted moment creeping toward my deadline to win her back.

  She can’t stay in that room forever.

  Bishop’s footsteps approach down the hall, his unimpressed glower at my bedroom door seconds later. He eyes the liquor bottle beside me as I sit on the floor, my head resting back against the wall.

  He sighs, long and judgmental. “How long do you plan on moping?”

  Moping? Seems this asshole is still looking for a fight. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re the one who told me to give her time.”

  “So you heard me?” He crosses his arms over his chest and leans a bicep against the doorframe. “For the last two days I’ve been wondering if the message got lost in translation and you actually thought I told you to act like a punk-ass bitch.”

  He’s definitely itching to get pummeled.

  “We’ve got employees wondering why the hell you disappeared. They’ve got questions I can’t answer, motherfucker. You need to start returning calls.”
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  I clench my teeth, glare, and grab for a bottle I already know is drained.

  “I’ll ask again,” he mutters. “How long do you plan on moping?”

  “How long do you expect to keep breathing if you continue to test me?” I drag myself to my feet, the liquor bottle dangling in my hand.

  He snickers. “There he is. The son of a bitch we all know and love.”

  I stalk toward him, shoving past to enter the hall and continue to the open living area.

  He follows, joining me in the kitchen as I dump the bottle in the trash. “I think it’s time we had a chat about why she’s here. Don’t you?”

  And have him judge me more than he already has? No thanks. “I’ve got things to do.” I make for the hall again only to have him block my path.

  “What things?” He narrows his gaze. “You’ve got that look in your eye.”

  “This look means I’m done waiting. She can’t ignore me any longer.”

  “If that’s the case, do you want me to go out to stockpile first aid supplies? Because you’re going to need them if you go in there half cut with the devil on your shoulder.”

  The devil has never been on my shoulder. That fucker resides in my soul.

  “I’m sure she’s put her isolation to good use,” he adds. “Her claws will be sharp.”

  The thought of those claws isn’t a deterrent. If anything, her touch, blood-drawing or not, has the opposite effect. I’d let her hurt me. I’d encourage it if it meant she’d acknowledge my existence.

  “Look.” He raises his hands in surrender. “Why don’t I start dinner? We both know I’m a one-trick pony, so we’re stuck with spaghetti, but at least that way you can take a cold shower, sober up, and figure out what the fuck you’re going to say to stop her from stabbing you.”

  “She’s not going to stab me. And I’m not drunk.” The liquor was merely medicinal, each sip taking the edge off days of building frustration. “By now she should’ve realized I’m the only one who can help her. She just needs to listen—”

  “Help her do what?” He backtracks around the island counter and pulls a saucepan from a cupboard. “Fix the mess you created?”

  He’s right. However, that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.