Page 44 of Ruthless Redemption

She places the salt and pepper shakers down, then turns back toward the house to make for the door. “We’re having warm chicken salad for dinner. It should be ready in fifteen minutes.”

There’s no strength in her voice. Only layers of exhaustion that intensify my guilt.

“Did she saysalad?” Bishop asks as she closes the door behind her. “She knows we’re men, right?”

“She knowsIam.” I return my attention to the inky ocean. “I’m not sure about you.”

“Okay. This has gone too far. I took the perverted sex in my stride. I haven’t complained about living on a lick of sleep. But salad? Come on, man. Nothing is worth putting up withsalad.”

“Then go discuss it with her.”

“I risked it once, but I’m not going anywhere near your girl on my own again. That shit is suicide territory when you’re like this.”

“Then quit complaining.” I grab for the scotch, only to have him swipe it out of reach for a second time.

“I willneverquit complaining about salad. What am I, a fucking gopher?”

I slide my hand into my pocket, discreetly removing the plastic cover from the knife. I need something to take the edge off.

I creep my fingers along the steel as Bishop continues to mutter nonsense. I tilt the blade, digging it into the material against my thigh, then deeper into my flesh.

The first pinch of pain is cathartic. Sharp and serene.

I drag in a slow breath, leaning into the relief. The clarity.

The tension wanes. The guilt eases.

I close my eyes and dig the blade deeper, more than a scratch, the tip of the knife slicing through skin.

“Are you listening?” Bishop’s voice hardens. “I said, are we going to talk about Emmanuel before she gets out here?”

I meditate on the burn in my thigh. The twinge of discomfort soothes. “No.”

He falls quiet, the silence condemning me, stealing my tiny glimpse of peace.

“All you need to know is that the dinner conversation has to run smoothly.” I release the knife and give him a warning stare. “Don’t cause trouble.”

“Me?” His face scrunches. “I’m not the one who’s been—”

“I mean it. Whatever she wants, she gets, okay? Even if it’s Emmanuel’s head stuffed and mounted on her wall. As far as I’m concerned, whatever she asks, we deliver.”

He holds my gaze, his disgust increasing as he raises the scotch to drain the remaining liquid.

“Whatever she wants,” I repeat.

He dumps the bottle beside his chair, refusing to respond. He won’t dare to defy me. Not when I’m so fucking volatile.

I return to my meditation. Eyes closed. A hand on the knife. The blade digging into flesh.

I pull myself together. Focus on the end game. On what will happen once I succeed.

I’ll take Layla away from here. Out of reach of family. Hers and mine. And we won’t return until her feelings for me are stronger than they were before.

We’ll make plans.

A future.

“Dinner is ready,” she calls from the kitchen.

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