His chest rose and fell, rapidly, sweat pooling on his face as he fought to breathe through his terror. No words were said, however. He knew we were way past that.
I cut the next button off and slowly worked my way down his shirt until they were all discarded.
J grunted from behind me. “Did you piss yourself, motherfucker?”
He had.
My monsters roared at the smell of fear in the room.
I trailed the knife down his body, from chest to waist, pushing his shirt out of the way as I went. His skin hypnotised me as I imagined sinking the knife in and drawing blood.
Blood.
I hungered for it.
He’ll never threaten a woman again.
I pressed the knife into his stomach, just deep enough for blood to pool on his skin. The whimper he emitted touched the edge of my consciousness as I concentrated on my revenge. A moment later, the smell of his blood hit my nostrils, and I fought the urge to lift my arm and bury the knife in his chest.
“Blade.”
Ben’s voice cut through my fog, and I snapped my head around to look at him. I glared my question at him. What?
“We need to take him to the warehouse for this.” His voice held urgency.
He was right.
Mario began snivelling as he cowered against the wall.
With one last scowl at him, I stood. Jerking my chin at Ben and the guys, I ordered, “Get him into the back of the van and I’ll meet you there.”
Ben nodded his understanding, and the three of them moved into action.
Nash looked at his watch. “You good now, brother? Or do you still need us?”
I reached behind me and slid my knife back in its sheath. “We can handle this from here. How many are out the back?”
“Two. They’re unconscious.” He gave me the information I needed, and I nodded. They wouldn’t be a problem as they were only men for hire. Mario had no loyalty in his operation.
Nash slapped me on the back. “Yell out if you need us again. Always happy to help.”
J gave me a chin jerk, and I watched them leave. Scott had come through for me today when I’d called and asked for his help. I hadn’t wanted to ever ask him for it, but when Layla called, I was dealing with a situation I couldn’t leave, and Scott was my best option.
***
It was ten o’clock that night before I saw Layla again. She sat in the corner at a table.
My table.
Her head rested on her arms on the table, and, as I approached, I sensed she was asleep. She didn’t stir when I sat, so I rested my hand on her shoulder. “Layla,” I murmured as I gently nudged her.
Her head shot up, and groggy eyes stared back at me.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you,” I apologised.
“You okay?” she asked, rubbing her eyes.
I frowned. “Yeah. Why?”
“I never heard from you after you left, so I’ve been worried.”
I’m an asshole.
What the fuck am I doing?
I leaned back in the chair and stretched my back. My muscles were all knotted, and the pain I always felt there had intensified this afternoon. Raking my hand through my hair, I said, “I took care of Mario. You don’t need to worry about him anymore.”
She stared at me silently. Her quick nod was all she gave me before she stood and walked away.
Fuck.
I dropped my head and squeezed my eyes shut.
She’ll never accept your demons.
What the fuck are you doing?
I took a deep breath. Best to face the truth before beginning something. Disappointment washed through me, though. I’d thought the connection had been there. I’d thought she might accept my darkness.
I opened my eyes and lifted my head.
She stood in front of me.
“Thought you could do with a drink,” she murmured as she passed me a glass and the bottle of scotch.
Fuck.
You don’t deserve her.
“Thank you.” I poured a drink and asked, “You want one?”
“No, I’ve already had a few tonight. I’m so tired that another one might knock me on my ass.” She sat down again, her movements sluggish.
I eyed the scarf around her neck. Reaching across the table, I loosened it to reveal the marks I’d left there last night. The asshole in me loved those fucking marks.
Her hand landed on mine and held it there. Our eyes met. The noise in my mind that never shut off quietened. The ache in my chest that clung to me and never gave me a moment’s peace ceased.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Fuck, her touch healed, if only for that moment. She knew what I’d done, and she was fucking thanking me for it. She accepted that part of me.
I drank some of my scotch and welcomed its burn.
She let my hand go, tightening her scarf back around her neck. My need to be connected to her was too great to move my hand away. I trailed my finger along her collarbone and then I traced the skin above the v of her t-shirt, letting my finger slip underneath the material every now and then. The gentle rise and fall of her chest turned me on. I loved how I affected her.
I kept feathering my light touch over her skin while I drank the rest of my scotch. Our eyes held each other, and the slow burn of need sizzled through me.
“I need you,” I growled.