Page 26 of Vendetta

She rolls over looking up at me and a small, almost bashful smile creeps across her lips.

“Good morning.” I say.

She takes in my shirt, my suit, the fact that I’m already dressed. “You have to go.” She says and I nod. “Why didn’t you wake me sooner?”

“You looked too peaceful to wake.” I say.

She rolls her eye. We’ve fitted into a comfortable existence, the two of us. And day by day she’s becoming more herself. More confident. More sassy too.

I stroke her cheek and she winces. “Why do you do that?” She asks.

“Do what?”

“Touch it.”

I pause for a moment. She means her scar. “I don’t know.” I admit.

“It doesn’t disgust you?” She says.

“Why would it?”

“Because it’s ugly. I’m ugly.” She states.

“No you’re not.” I growl.

She looks away for a moment and my anger flares.

“You are not ugly. And neither is that scar.”

She snorts. “That’s a lie.”

“Eleri, those men tried to make you ugly. To destroy your beauty because they couldn’t enjoy it themselves.”

She nods and then looks up at me, tilting her head. “How do you know it was more than just him?” She asks.

Shit. I open my mouth to reply and my phone goes off. Saved by the bell I guess.

“I’m sorry, I have to take this.” I say.

“Go.” She replies like we’re not in the middle of something. Like I’ve not just revealed something fucking massive. She’s not a drama queen, she doesn’t mind that I’m treating her like she’s not my priority despite the fact that she should be.

I nod and leave her to it, hating it all the same.

Preston is waiting for me when I get outside. Blaine is already there.

We drive in silence. My men are on edge. Alert. In truth they have nothing to be concerned about but I like that they’re wary. It gives them an edge. It means they’re prepared and we won’t end up caught with our trousers down and our dicks out.

The cars screech to a halt. My men get out first. Then Preston. Then me.

I walk in last. Not for dramatic effect, but because I’m still processing this. Still mulling this over. I can play this two ways.

I glance at Preston. I know the way he’d advocate. He’d go for the safe option. The easier option. He’d say play the long game. Play the clever game. But I’m done playing. And I’m done waiting too.

I walk into the dimly lit space. Blaine is there, arms crossed, usual smug look on his face.

In front of him is a middle aged man, chained up, hanging from the ceiling. I can see Blaine’s already had some fun.

“Well?” I say.

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