“Look, it’s apparent there are hurt feelings between the two—”
I stop him mid-sentence, snapping, “What are you, my fucking therapist? Don’t pretend to have insight into something you clearly know nothing about.”
“I spent the afternoon with her. She’s easy to read.”
I laugh as I walk back over to the couch. “That woman is anything but easy to read. Trust me. Don’t let her fool you. And what the hell are you doing talking to her? I told you to watch her, not befriend her.”
The mere idea of Lachlan spending time with her and not knowing what’s being said or what their interactions are like rubs a raw spot in me. To not know, and the fact that it bothers me so much, it’s infuriating. It’s the way she was able to claw her way inside of me and burrow into the one vacant spot no one has ever been able to find makes me hate her even more. She’s a cherub of martyrdom, and I, her willing victim. Willing because, as much as I want to, I can’t let the red-headed sadist go. I doubt I’ll ever be able to because of the mark she’s left on me. I’m the unhealed remnant left in her destructive wake.
“She wants me to find her mother,” he eventually tells me, cutting the silence.
My eyes dart to his. “What?”
“I offered.”
Why the fuck is she giving parts of her truth to him that she hasn’t given me?
“Isn’t that fantastic!” My cynical words come out loudly. “Do me a favor, try obeying my orders next time. Follow her and cut the friendly shit.”
“No need to follow. Like I said, she leaves tomorrow,” he informs as he pushes himself off from the chair. Standing in front of me, he shrugs on his coat and grabs the file. “I’ll deliver the documents.”
Leaning forward, I prop my elbows on my knees as I listen to his loafers echo down the foyer.
“I want to know when you find her mother!” I holler.
“Will do,” he calls back before the sound of the door closing grants me much needed isolation.
Slumping down into the couch, I rest my head and stare up at the ceiling, replaying the evening. Everything about it is a Gordian knot. And not just the words that were spoken, but the wound I gave her that she’s successfully mutilated. I remember ripping the hair from her scalp and the pleasure it gave me to punish her. But her reaction was not what I expected. She didn’t as much as yelp at what must have been blisteringly painful. She simply stood there as tears dripped down her face, yet she wasn’t crying, not like you would think.
But tonight, when I walked in on her and saw the blood, my only reaction was to help her. Taking care of her and cleaning her up makes me sick, now that I think about it, but in the moment, all the turmoil faded. It was when she started to speak that it all came crashing back. It flooded the room, drowning me in its weight when she told me she didn’t know if the baby was mine.
That fucking baby.
All I wanted was that baby. I never knew I wanted one so badly until she told me she was pregnant. Instantly, my soul split and begged to have a son or daughter fill me. I would close my eyes and dream about it.
The news birthed a surge of overwhelming protectiveness inside of me, and I would have done anything for the two of them the moment she told me she lost the baby.
And I did.
It happened all too fast.
Walking away from Nina as she fought the nurse’s restraints . . . Speeding through the traffic . . . Grabbing my pistol from the car’s console . . . The chill of the metal against my back as I tucked it in my pants . . . Pulling into The Legacy’s garage . . . Back entrance . . . Elevator . . . Fury running thick through my veins.
Doors open, I walk.
Foyer, living room, hallway.
Door.
Head and heart pound. Ears ring. Blood boils.
One hand on gun, the other on door.
Open . . . Aim . . . BANG.
I can still smell the gunpowder, see the look of fear in Bennett’s eyes, hear him gurgling and choking on his own blood. I killed a man—an innocent man—point-blank. His last words, a plea for me to not do it, still haunt me. But I did it anyway because I thought him to be the man Nina manipulated to me. I believed he killed my baby, and for that, he would die.
But it was a lie.
I shake the visions from my head and walk over to pour myself another glass of Scotch. It’s my pathetic attempt to quiet the demons in me.
The conundrum I battle with is the idea that Nina is the vile one, and that somehow I’m good. But I’m not. I’m a killer. She didn’t pull that trigger—I did. I don’t want to bathe in the same evil as she, but I do.
It was her that screwed with my head, twisting truth with lies, creating me into this monster. But a monster I am, just as she, and I allowed. Whether I intended to or not—I still allowed it.