Page 77 of Hostile Vows
And I pull the trigger.
30
SINÉAD
“Stag!” I scream at him, my chest exploding and the backs of my eyes burning.
“What the fuck?” Letterman barges into the office. His gun points inside the office, frantic eyes scouting for danger. “Dré?”
I scramble to my feet and press my spine flat to the wall. My startled gaze is directed at twirling white feathers and two bullet holes in a cushion.
With disheveled wild hair, carved inky muscles, and eyes like bottomless black holes, André appears distressed and utterly predatory. Raw rage sharpens his features, the chaos running riot inside of him searching for an anchor.
And suddenly, when I fear those inner demons will rip the flesh from his bones, his forehead furrows and he squeezes his eyes shut for the briefest moment to shutter visible anguish.
The wildness controlling him lessens as he takes a steady, fortifying breath. Once his gaze reappears, he snarls at Letterman, “Don’t look at her.”
Letterman briefly studies me in silence, trying to figure out what had happened. André stands next to the desk, his gun aimed at the floor, his other hand scrubbing the coarse hair of his jawline.
“Leave us,” André mutters after running his tongue under his upper lip. “We have unfinished business to discuss.”
Letterman glances at him, his brow scrunched and his lips parted like he wants to speak. Instead, he nods and backs out, slowly closing the door on us.
No fucking way.
“Wait…” I dart toward the exit and grab the handle. “I'm coming with you. Let me out of here.”
“You're not going anywhere.” The revolver clatters on the desk as it lands, his barefooted steps slapping the floor as he stalks toward me.
“Stag! How many times do I have to say it? Don’t come any closer!” I stick a hand up to halt him, my breathing out of control. “Stay the hell away from me. You’ve lost your mind, André.”
“Sinéad.” The calm way he says my name in that raspy Colombian cadence regrettably makes my skin sizzle. “It’s okay.”
Hatred combines with an unjustified desire. My eyes snap from him to the abandoned revolver and back again.
“Fuck you, Dré,” I hiss. “You were going to shoot me.”
His jaw ticks. “I shot the cushions. Not you.”
“Yeah, but you thought about it, didn't you?”
“No. What I thought about was my wife obeying Sapori’s order,” he confesses, as a flicker of sadness moves across his features.
“Are you joking? I must have missed something because I didn’t hear Frankie’s order for me to crawl naked or beat you off. That was all you, Dré. I followed through onyourcommands. But after you scared the shit out of me, I wish I hadn’t. I don’t want you anywhere near me. Not now. Not ever.”
For an eon, we stand toe to toe just staring at each other. The longer he stares, the more confused I become. Whatever rolls through him gives off a ferocious vibration. A killer capable of evil deeds, and I could have been his target for a split second. A tick of time where the scales had thankfully dipped in my favor, and he shot up the cushion instead.
Tortured recklessness had crept over his demeanor and the darkness in him spilled into the room. Equally, I’d watched him fight an inner battle, and in a heartbeat, he chose to blow a couple of holes into the cushion instead of my heart.
He towers above me, so lethal and dangerous. It stupidly makes my stomach flip. I loathe this uncontrollable red-hot attraction.
I scowl up at him. “Letterman told me to leave you alone. I shouldn’t have disturbed you.”
“Too late. You did.” He folds his arms. “Everything about you disturbs my world.”
“Charming.” My lungs cramp at the cruel admission. “I’m going back to bed. You do you.”
For a moment, we’re locked in an impasse of heat and bewilderment. “I will. Which means I’ll take you upstairs myself.”
