Page 135 of Pride: The Rogue
From the corner of his eye, he caught a slight flash of movement.
With a feral grin, he turned his gaze on the prone man at his feet.
Lord Forfar swallowed loudly. “Please, L-Latimer.” Pain left the viscount’s voice strained and weak. “You know yourself, she’s a hot piece. She wanted i—”
With a thunderous roar of fury, Lachlan descended on the witless whoremonger. Wrapping a hand about the front of Forfar’s slender neck, Latimer hauled Livian’s attacker up. “You’ll die this day, Forfar,” he growled.
Latimer punched him square in the face—again and again, long after Forfar’s body went limp.
He didn’t relent.
Demented, his breath coming in short, violent spurts, Latimer continued battering the sod.
Blood gushed from the viscount’s nose like a spigot.
All the while, an uncontrollable, all-consuming, blinding rage consumed Latimer. Sweat dripped into his eyes. That burning hatred coursed hot in his veins and drove out all reason.
Through the crazed, unceasing drumming that filled his ears, that vulgarity Forfar hurled at Livian echoed over and over.
Bitch.
Bitch.
Bitch.
The heartbreaking sound of Livian’s weeping and pleas continued in Latimer’s mind. He’d never shake the memories of them.
Please, stop. Please. Please.
Latimer let Forfar go, and the bastard’s limp body collapsed against the floor.
There was a brief break in the agonizing re-echoing of Livian’s cries and entreaties. But the torturous remembrance of her prone with Forfar bent over her, haunted him.
Panting, Latimer ground his fist into Forfar’s flat belly.
Please, don’t.She’d begged.
His vision blank, Latimer delivered another solid jab to Forfar’s stomach.
He, who’d prided himself on being a master of restraint and self-control, thrummed with a savage energy.
He’d killed plenty of men in his life.
No one who hadn’t deserved it, and never anyone who hadn’t attacked first.
Regardless, the same way some fellows got off on murdering the way others did sex, Latimer had only ever ended another man out of necessity. That primitive instinct buried deep withinall that whispered: kill or be killed. Even then, Latimer hadn’t relished having those thugs’ blood on his hands.
Until now.
Until Lord Forfar.
“Mr. Latimer!”
For until Latimer took his last dying breath, he’d recall the sigh of Forfar hovering over Livian, about to deliver a silencing strike.
Now, he understood the savage bloodlust that led a man to not only kill, but revel in his opponent’s fall.
“Mr. Latimer!”
