Page 82 of Sinister Promise

She was the reason I was here.

It didn’t have any deep meaning.

This bastard hurt a vulnerable woman.

That was as deep as I needed to go to unalive him.

And why not?

No one was going to miss him, least of all his daughter.

At least that was what I was telling myself.

The fact that I’d never gone this far to track down someone who hurt one of my past lovers didn’t matter.

That there was something special and innocent about Alina that made me want to be the man who sheltered and protected her…well, that was something to consider another time.

As was the fact that I wanted nothing more than to be with her now, forcing her to eat more, to drink and regain her strength before I punished that sweet pussy again.

Instead, I got to watch this pathetic excuse for a man—filthy, trembling, and utterly powerless.

Yet, he was the one who caused Alina so much pain and suffering.

I despised men who abused those they were supposed to protect.

This wasn't a man at all, but a snake, a coward, and really not worthy of the air he breathed.

Damien and Mikhail moved to stand beside me, theirgazes sharp with disgust as they shoved the chain, making Richard swing like a human pendulum.

His screams echoed off the metal walls, making my ears ache.

We were miles from civilization, surrounded by cornfields and the private airport that was only ever staffed when a flight was expected. He could scream all he wanted, and I might have let him get it out, but I was eager to get back to the hotel.

Grabbing him by his greasy, thinning hair, I forced the swinging to stop with a violent jerk.

"Please, please," he babbled. "I'll get you whatever you want. Just let me go."

"That sounds reasonable," I said, looking back at Damien and Mikhail. "What I want to know is simple. Just one little question, and we'll let you go."

"Anything," he panted, his face turning red as he struggled to breathe.

"What kind of garbage human being forces his own daughter to pay off his gambling debts?"

"What?" Richard asked, confusion sliding over his red, sweaty face.

"One that deserves to die," Damien replied coldly.

"Slowly," Mikhail added.

The fear hit him then, real and immediate. Richard stammered, trying to form words, but terror strangled his speech. Or maybe it was the way he was hanging, the blood all rushing to his head. Then his panic manifested in the worst way—his body betrayed him, and a dark stain spread across his pants, seeping into his belt and down to his shirt.

Damien took a step back with a sneer, glancing down at his expensive Italian leather shoes. "You better not get any piss or blood on my shoes, fucker."

I remained focused, not letting his disgusting display of weakness distract me.

Drawing a knife from my motorcycle boot, I tested its weight.

Unlike Damien, I came dressed for the occasion. My tailored suits were safe in my closet; instead, I was dressed in black cargo pants and combat-ready attire. If the look the hotel staff gave me was any indication, I looked like a man ready to deal in death.

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