Page 155 of Yearn
Rage roared through me.
The knock came again.
Short.
Sharp.
A mallet on bone.
I should have fucking killed him.
That was my biggest regret for tonight. I could have upped the dosage and then buried him somewhere, but I was trying to be safe.
If he went missing after delivering that court order, she would be the police’s first suspect. And although my legal team—the same firm that represented three Fortune 500 CEOs and a governor—could easily get her out of a murder case within forty-eight hours. I could not let Teyonah deal with hours of interrogation, short jail cell time, separation from her kids, and mind-numbing anxiety all because of my actions.
Scott sounded like he was about to cry. “T-teyonah?”
“Give me a fucking minute, Scott!” She had her dress in order now, or as close as it would get. She tugged the top part a little like she could pull the past erotic minutes out of the fabric and leave it on the floor.
Still sneering, I shoved my cock in my boxer briefs, yanked up my pants, and buttoned the top.
The room smelled like heat, adrenaline, and sex.
“Teyonah? Teyonah?” Scott whimpered and then slumped against the door. “I’m serious. . .I. . .need your h-help. . .I feel like. . .I’m dying.”
Good. Then, let me help you get to death faster.
Too pissed and deliriously horny, I headed to the desk.
The hypodermic needle lay exactly where I had left it, and it was still full.
I’ll just put him to sleep for a few more hours. He can even lay by the damn door, while I fuck her. I don’t care.
Once at the desk, my fingers closed around the needle.
On the other side of the door, keys jingled.
He really is a narcissist.
The piece of shit bastard was just going to burst in here whether I wanted him in my place or not.
Come on then, Scott. Get your medicine.
When I turned, Teyonah was watching me in fear and shaking her head. “No. No. Put that down.”
I raised the needle between us. “He just needs a little more. I’m sorry. I should have upped the dosage.”
“I said no. Put it down. You might kill him.”
I arched a brow. “Would it really be that bad if he died?”
“Yes.” She looked terrified now—like she saw me not just as her cure, but as her disease. “Killing him is not the answer.”
“I think it is.”
“Then, think about J and Oliver. I don’t want them to learn about death. It’s not time for them to grieve for their father.”
That hit me deep in the chest, sharp and echoing like a scalpel striking bone. The memory of my parents’ deaths wasn’t just a scar—it was an open fracture, a wound that had never fully set.
