Her lips are on mine before I can blink.
And then I don’t want to blink. I don’t want to break the searing and crazy connection we share, because in her eyes, I’m reading all my dreams coming true.
With every passing second, she’s turning me into a sap. A really fucking ecstatic sap.
My wife is next level, and she pampers my ego until it’s soaring sky high. “If you’re in front, I guess I get to check your ass out, Dante. And there’s no way I’d say no to that. Let’s go,” she says, taking an obvious step back and looking me up and down in such a dirty, filthy way, I nearly sport a hard-on.
Matteo chuckles knowingly as he slides into position behind her, and Valentine reaches out to hold her hand in his. We take a step, and like seems to always be the case, our steps are synchronized like we’re one instead of four.
I whistle sharply, making a sweeping motion with my hands. The dogs take off, tearing away, and get immediately lost in the shadows. Stopping in front of our pack, I make everyone wait at what I perceive to be a safe distance until the dogs return to sit at her feet. And since the dogs aren’t agitated or checking back inside the hangar, I read it as a sign we’re relatively safe.
Unwilling to relinquish the lead until I see for myself, I follow in the same steps as the dogs around the inside of the hangar before waving the rest of Pack De Luca forward.
As soon as they stand with me, we cross the threshold into the hangar.
Everyone makes slow and measured steps inside as we take in the scene, and it’s both intriguing and incriminating. The hangar is mostly empty, except for an area near the door that’s set up like a boardroom. Tables and chairs are arranged in one zone, a sitting area, complete with leather sofas, in another. Against the wall are fridges and tables, probably for drinks and food, which isn’t all that unusual, considering the clientele that generally uses private jets. What is unusual are the handful of bodies—some in police uniform, others in expensive suits, that litter the floor.
The dead are incidental and irrelevant, in a way. Obviously, if they’re here, they’re not innocent, but what is intriguing is the older man dressed in a sharp, blue-and-white pinstripe suit, his head hanging forward, hiding his face. But he’s still very much alive. And it’s not really him that’s interesting; it’s the way my wife’s horrified gaze hasn’t left him.
The scent of her distress is like being shot in the chest. It’s painful and impossible to ignore. Her usual caramel scent, even hidden under the harsh chemicals of the blockers, is suddenly acerbic in her fear.
I fucking hate the terror wafting off my wife. It guts me.
Valentine’s already talking to her. The actual words he uses are lost under the blast of adrenaline in my ears, but I can certainly pick up his concern. Whatever he’s saying is coming from a place of comfort, not from a place of needing to know what the fuck is going on.
She takes a series of overly large gulps of air before she shakes off Valentine’s touch to brace her hands on her knees. It’s like our girl is collapsing in on herself before our very eyes. It physically pains me to see her so lost in her fear.
“Layne?” I ask gently as I move in front of her, bending down to try to see if there are any answers in her eyes. My worry for her is based on me needing to understand if she’s physically okay, or if I have to run her out of here.
“I just need a sec, baby,” she says as soon as she sees me. Her voice cracks and is unusually hoarse, her eyes shifting back to the man slumped in the chair like she’s expecting him to jump scare her.
I’d never fucking let that happen.
Rubbing my hand over her shoulders, trying to let her know on a different level we’re all here for her, my worry increases exponentially when I feel how locked up tight she is. And her panic isn’t letting up; she keeps gulping and making a noise in the back of her throat like her airways are constricting.
“Talk to me,” I urge
Valentine is talking to her too. The dogs circle closer. Matteo stands behind her, lending his own support. But Layne is Layne, and she doesn’t rush through her emotions or reactions any quicker. She squeezes her eyes shut before focusing her energy on slowing her breathing, already knowing how close she is to hyperventilating.
It’s excruciating to watch, but at least she isn’t hiding how shaken she is from us or rushing through her emotions because she’s uncomfortable with us. If anything, she’s letting us be a part of it. It’s an honor, a testament to the way we’re becoming pack.
Time feels like it’s about to drag to a stop as she continues fighting the minefield in her mind. We intentionally drown her in our scent and our varying touches, reminding her in any way we can that we are here.
I wish it wasn’t so fucking obvious who the man is.
I’m positive that there would only be two people in the entire world to incite such a sudden crest of absolute terror and fearin my wife. Since he’s older than any of us, I’d put everything I have on this being her father, Attorney General Harrison Ronald Rothchild, the cunt.
It’s not my place to rush her for confirmation. I’m here to give her the space she needs while she sorts through the rush of memories and nightmares.
I feel her take one more steady breath before she stands back up. She fluffs her hair and smooths a hand over her tattered clothes.
“It’s my father.” Her voice is husky, the emotion still constricting how she speaks, but she’s coming back to us. Her confidence is returning word by word. “And now I’m really pissed at Ronin and Santiago. The least they could have done was kill the asshole first. They said they left me a gift, but that”—she glares at him—“is not the sort of present I want.”
I step in front of her to shield her from what I’m about to do, and Valentine is already doing the same, instinctively knowing my actions before they happen. He tugs her to him, his hand cupping behind her head, and makes sure to cover her ear. Triple-checking for myself she’s properly protected, I turn back to her cunt of a father and fire point blank into the top of his head.
Layne’s anxiety that was strangling thick and toxic, like smog, starts to recede. Her scent sweetens, and her posture adjusts like a weight has been lifted off her shoulders. But it’s the subtle shift in the haunted look in her eyes that confirms that, no matter how much I wanted to prolong the torture of her sick fuck of a father, dealing with him swiftly had more an impact for Layne. And that’s what my life is all about, her. Helping her find her nirvana—emotionally, physically, sexually, and spiritually—because she is my all.
It is her relief that appeases my lust for retribution against her father, more than any of his potential suffering. The more Iwatch her, the more the voices in my head quiet. The internal chatter about whether I should have pushed her into letting me take him back to our building, with the intention of torturing and maiming him for as long as I could, all but evaporates. This death was not about me.
