Page 38 of Ruthless Redemption

He holds my stare, reading me, scrutinizing, his hand falling to his side. “Then so be it.” He turns and walks for the kitchen, shucking his jacket along the way to throw it onto the island counter.

He pulls open a drawer, the clink of cutlery harsh as he snatches a paring knife and places it on the counter. “You want a physical wound to make up for your emotional pain?” He faces me, his hand aggressively yanking at the button on his shirt cuff. “Then will you forgive me?”

“Stop being dramatic.”

“All I’m doing is clearing up any misconception that there are limitations to my apology.” He aggressively folds his sleeve to his elbow, then reclaims the knife. “You want my suffering, so I’m offering it to you. Would you like to do the honors?”

I keep my mouth shut. He won’t go through with it.

“Layla?” My name is a warning. “You or me? Tell me how to do this right to get you to forgive me.”

My heart clenches, the tormented organ threatening to wither and die.

I want him in agony. In anguish. I want him withering with the misery that his lies have created. But I also can’t stand to see him in pain. I’m too weak. Too fucking pathetic.

“Don’t falter now. If this is what you need, take it. Slice me. Stab me. Cut me into a thousand pieces.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I know you’re bluffing.”

“Like hell I am. I’m standing here, willing to give you whatever the fuck you need to forgive my sins. And you’ve seen me naked enough times to know nobody else has gotten close enough to leave a scar. You’ll be the first. The only. Then I’ll have the privilege of having a physical injury to match my internal misery because even though you don’t want to believe it,amore mio, I’m fucking suffering just like you.”

I glare, unwilling to fall victim to the sincerity in his tone.

He’s lying. Manipulating. He’s taunting me with the offer of violence because he knows I could never follow through.

“Then do it yourself,” I grate.

“As you wish.” He swivels the three-inch blade toward his arm and buries it in his flesh.

Bile screams up my throat. Panic takes over my pulse. And all he does is stare at me. Questioning. Silently asking if the steel embedded in his forearm is enough.

“Want more?” He retrieves the knife, sending a trail of blood over his wrist to spill to the tile.

“No.” I tremble. Shake.

I’m livid and sickened and weak.

“I can make a lengthy gash this time.” He looks down at his injury. “Straight down the vein instead of a flesh wound. Blood loss might be your best friend. There’s no hospital within forty miles.”

“Stop it.” My heart screams for me to go to him, to check the damage and quit this stupidity. It’s my head that keeps me in place. My pride. My self-preservation.

“This is what you asked for.” He starts toward me, crimson streaming down his arm and along his hands, leaving a spotted trail behind him. “It’s what you want.” He holds the knife for me to take, the hilt coated in blood.

He knows I won’t grab it. He knows I’m a coward.

I hate myself for it. The disgust eats at me. Gnaws.

“Take what you need, Layla.”

Tension forms beneath my sternum. “Nothing will fill the gaping hole you created.” My voice fractures. “No stab wound. No amount of bloodshed.”

His jaw hardens, but his eyes are pained. Pleading.

I wish his vulnerability repulsed me. Instead, his suffering makes mine greater. “I trusted you.”

“I know.”

My palms itch to slap the undeserving sorrow from his face. “Ilovedyou.”

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