Page 43 of Ruthless Redemption

The slight scratch on my neck has hardened. The wound on my forearm has been stitched by my own shitty craftsmanship. I took my time dragging the needle through my skin in the hopes it would distract me.

It didn’t.

Every time I close my eyes, Layla’s there. There’s no escaping the storm we’ve created.

The sliding door opens behind me.

I already know it’s not her. She won’t come in search of me.

“She offered to cook dinner.” Bishop takes the seat beside me. “Don’t worry. I confiscated anything poisonous from under the sink. If she’s going to kill us, it won’t be through something ingestible.”

I glance over my shoulder to the kitchen, finding her at the counter chopping vegetables. “Why would she offer?”

“Maybe because she’s sick of staring at the same four walls.”

Or maybe she’s been snooping and found the sleeping pills in my bathroom.

“You realize those fuckers are probably out here watching us, right?” he asks.

“I don’t give a shit.” I take another mouthful from the liquor bottle. As long as Hunter stays in the shadows, the blade in my pocket will remain hidden.

“And when we start talking about Emmanuel?” He snatches the scotch from my hand and throws back a gulp. “What then?”

“They won’t hear us from the beach.” I can barely hear myself think over the waves and sea breeze.

He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t need to. His judgmental thoughts are loud and clear while the clatter of pans echoes from inside.

He wants to tell me how much I’ve messed up. To run through the list of my mistakes. And how much I’ve changed. How much I’ve risked.

“Hurry up and say it,” I mutter. “I’ve known you long enough to understand you can’t hold back from rubbing in my failures.”

He settles into the deck chair, the scotch returning to his lips momentarily. “Who’s to say you failed? I’m pretty sure that blood ritual of yours was successful. I’m just waiting for the demonic creature you summoned to show.”

The reminder of the violent sex has my mind racing back there. To her fingers splayed on my chest, her skin covered in crimson.

“I spoke to her when I took in the food…” He hesitates, as if waiting for me to attack.

“And?”

“And I’m no connoisseur of the female psyche, but you only seem to be pissing her off more. Have you ever thought about doing the opposite of what your instincts suggest?”

“Don’t start being a smart-ass.” I attempt to snatch the bottle back only to have him yank it out of reach. “I’m on the precipice here.”

“I know. That’s why you’re cut off until further notice. No more alcohol for you tonight. We’re making plans for Emmanuel, remember? And you sure as shit won’t be doing it with a gut full of liquor.”

“I’m not drunk.” Not even buzzed.

He raises the scotch along with a brow. “There’s barely any left.”

“I used it as antiseptic, asshole.” I’m well aware I need to be on my game for the dinner conversation. I can’t fuck up the only reason Layla’s remained here.

“Good.” He takes another chug as the outdoor lights turn on, blinding me. “Jesus.What the fuck?”

The door opens behind us while I blink. Layla’s gentle footsteps head toward the outdoor dining setting. I squint as she brings a stacked tray to the table, then removes placemats, cloth napkins, and cutlery.

There’s something different about her.

I scrutinize her as my eyes adjust, taking in the paler shade of her skin, the slightly rounded shoulders. She’s lost the rigidity in her posture. The defiance.

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