“No,” I snarled, my voice dropping into a register that made the waitress approaching us freeze. “There were no other men. There couldn’t be. Indigo knows who owns her soul. She could run to the edge of the earth, but she’d still feel my hand around her throat. She wouldn’t dare let another man touch what’s mine.”
I took a breath, smoothing my features even though my heart was still hammering against my ribs.
“She’s mine, Priest. Past, present, and every fucking second of her future. And if I find out a single soul even looked at her the wrong way while she was gone… I won’t just kill them. I’ll make them wish they’d never been born.”
Priest laughed and raised his glass. “To the King and his stolen Queen.”
Kael looked between us. “You’re both insane.” He downed his glass.
I didn’t drink. I just stared at the door, thinking about the woman back at the house who was currently learning that in my world, there is no such thing as an exit—only the deep, dark weight of being wanted.
“She’ll thank me eventually for everything I did,” I whispered.
Kael smirked. “Or she’ll kill you in your sleep this time. After stabbing you and shooting you, what else is there left for her to do?”
Chapter 15
Malachai
He went out drinking and hadn’t come home last night.
My eyes darted to the huge digital clock on the wall. 1:15 the next day. I took a sip of Malachai’s good liquor. It went down smooth. I paused, turning the bottle in my hand so I could read the label.
Macallan 25 Year Old.
I took another sip. Expensive. Aged to perfection. It was what he drank when he finished a job.
I stared at it for a second, wondering how much it cost. Probably a fortune.
I reared my arm back and flung it.
It exploded against the wall, staining it like blood. For a moment, I felt liberated. Like the splatter was proof that I still had some control.
“Alexa, play ‘Sir,No Evil.’”
This song had been on repeat. Alexa was probably tired of me.
The first notes slithered through the silent house. I took another drink and felt the burn in my throat. The liquid fire made me feel reckless.
I rose onto my toes and moved through the foyer in a series of piqué turns, my silk robe fluttering around my legs like smoke.
“But I see no evil… Oh, I see no evil…” I sang to the empty vaulted ceiling, my voice echoing back. I caught my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows—my hair was all over my head.
“Oh, I see another reason for me to believe in the hero…”
I pirouetted into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of vintage Bordeaux from the side door—something he’d been saving for a “special occasion.”
“Special occasion is tonight, Malachai,” I giggled. I also grabbed a $500 bottle of Cristal I’d found tucked in the back. I executed a shaky grand jeté back into the living room.
I set the wine on the sofa table. What else would sound pretty breaking?
I tapped my chin. Cologne.
I glided toward the master suite and snatched three bottles of his signature scent—the ones that smelled like woodsmoke and expensive sins—and clutched them to my chest.
Back in the living room, I lined them up like soldiers on death row. The Bordeaux. The Tom Ford. The Creed. His things. His expensive, pointless things. One by one. Waiting for him to walk through the door.
I found his Timberland boots in the closet. They swallowed my feet. I stomped around in them—bare legs, thong, robe open. I sang louder because this was my favorite part.