Page 8 of Ruthless Redemption

Then my brother fucked me.

I climb the stairs and stalk my ass inside.

The tiled entry sparkles. The scent of lemon cleaning chemicals taints the air. I prowl my way along the cobweb-free hall and into the pristine open living area, every single pane of the floor-to-ceiling glass scuff free.

The perfection mocks me. It fucking pokes at my inferiority, screaming how unworthy I am.

Bishop stands in the kitchen, his ass leaning against the island counter as he takes a bite of a half-eaten apple.

“Where is she?” I ask.

He jerks his head toward the far hall leading to the bedrooms. “I told her to take the room next to yours.”

I divert my path in search of her. We’re going to talk this shit through. I’ll justify my actions or die trying.

I pass my bedroom, then continue to hers and stop before the closed door. I raise my hand to knock, the gentle fall of the shower pattering in the distance. There’s something else, too. A sniffle. The faintest whimper?

Fuck. Is she crying?

Her pain is an arrow through my chest.

“I told you this would happen.” Bishop comes to stand at the start of the hall. “I warned you.”

I brace my clenched knuckles against her door and hang my head, not daring to look at him for fear of lighting the fuse to my temper.

“I said she would bring drama.” He approaches. “That she’d be a fucking complication. Now look where we’re at—in the middle of a war that’s not ours with loot that will get us killed.”

“She’s not loot.” Anger mixes with my self-loathing, the potent concoction warming my veins. I fight to hold myself in check, to calm the devil within.

“Then what is she? What the fuck have you dragged us into?” Bishop keeps approaching. Keeps taunting. If he’s not careful, he’ll bear the brunt of the madness waging war inside me.

“What haveIdragged us into?” I push from the door and swing around to face him. “None of this would’ve happened if you’d done your job in the first place.”

“You’re blaming this on me?”

“Why wouldn’t I? All you had to do was find out why she was spying on Emmanuel at that fucking restaurant. You had one goddamn job.”

He raises a brow, his lips slowly curling in a threatening smile. “Why don’t we take this outside? I’ll give you the fight you’re itching for.”

My chest hums, my soul empowered by the offer of violence.

Pain is exactly what I want. The crunch of bone. The thrill of carnage.

“I’m not fighting you,” I snarl.

“Why? You worried I’ll kick your ass?”

If I thought he could overpower me in my current state, I’d welcome the threat. I’d accept the hospitality of his beating and hope he knocked me out cold. But the opposite will happen.

“No.” I dig my fingers into my palms, wishing the need for brutality would lessen. All it does is build. Morph. Punish. “I’m more concerned I won’t stop until I kill you.”

He straightens. Sobers.

He knows I’m not exaggerating.

He squares his shoulders, tightens his jaw. “If that’s the case, you shouldn’t be anywhere near her.”

The caution pokes my self-loathing higher, making it dance with my rage.

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