Page 10 of Ruthless Redemption

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.

I’m all she’s got, and the fact she hasn’t run by now means she’s fully aware of it.

The neighbors might not be close, but they’re within walking distance. She could’ve fled there for help. My bet is that she knows the only things the outside world can give her are temporary measures—a phone call, a short supply of cash.

“Yes,” I admit. “I’m the only one who can fix the mess I created.”

Bishop moves to the fridge, making a mass of noise as he claims ingredients, then dumps them on the counter. Something else enters the mix. A far-off sound coming from the hall leading to the bedrooms.

I cock my head, hearing it again. A muffled whir.

Did she flee her hiding place?

I stalk for the hall, hungry to see her, to speak to her, only to find her bedroom door closed as usual.

“Layla, are you in there?” I speak to the painted wood.

Her response is a squeak of mattress springs as the whir repeats down the hall. The washing machine? She snuck out to wash her clothes?

If only she’d fucking asked. I would’ve bought her every item under the sun. Shirts. Dresses. Underwear. She doesn’t have a fully stocked wardrobe like I do, but it was only a matter of voicing a fucking request.

“Layla.” I pause, willing the devil inside me to calm. “You’ve had enough time on your own. Tonight, you eat with me.”

There’s another squeak of mattress springs. I picture her shoving from the bed to stand tall, her chin high with defiance, her face unbelievably mesmerizing as it tightens in anger.

“Layla?” I test the handle and taste victory when the lever lowers. Did she forget to lock the door? “I’m coming in.”

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