My stomach bunches in knots. “But what about you?”
“I’ll be fifteen minutes cleaning up their cameras,” he says. “Then I’ll go straight to your place.”
“Be safe?” It comes out like a question. What if he’s not? What if he gets caught? What if something happens to him?
“You worried about me, Princess?” He teases as he rests his forearm on the edge of my door, his lips rising in a smirk I want to kiss off him.
And not to thank him. No. Because I want him.
Iwanthim.
“Get home safe,” I say. “Hawkeye’s going to be a wreck if his dad doesn’t make it back.”
My words hit as Tristan’s cockiness crumbles like the Berlin Wall. His arm drops, and he bends down to press a kiss against my lips that’s heavy with possibilities I’m desperate to explore. His intensity mirrors mine, but he pulls back.
Grabbing the seatbelt, he reaches across me and buckles me in, tightening the strap between my breasts as his gaze drops there.
“Drive safe, Princess. I’ll see you soon.”
He shuts my door and strolls over to one of the cars toretrieve another duffel bag from the trunk before heading inside.
Once the front doors shut, I find enough adrenaline simmering in me to get the hell out of here. He has a plan. I’m going to follow it.
Fifteen minutes later, the lamp’s tossed, and I’m sitting in my living room, Hawkeye gnawing at a stuffed alligator dog toy.
And I wait.
And wait.
But Tristan doesn’t show up.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
TRISTAN
Daphne’s goingto be worried sick, but I can’t help that. I’m not taking any risks.
Brent’s awake, still sitting on the floor. No one’s found him, and he doesn’t stand when I enter the conference room.
“Help,” he croaks. “Someone attacked me.”
Light gleams off shards of multicolored glass still scattered like a broken kaleidoscope. Brent’s clutching his bloodied hand to the wound above his hairline.
He doesn’t recognize me.
“Was anyone in here with you?” I crouch down and pretend to examine the mess.
He nods. “Daphne. Daphne Fox. She brought me in here.”
I find what I’m looking for. I pluck a blue shard of glass off the carpet and press the edge against Brent’s throat.
He whimpers, his eyes slamming shut. His Adam’s apple bobs slightly, a tiny droplet of red smearing along the jagged point.
My stomach lurches at the red droplets leaking from asmall prick on this bastard’s skin. I force myself to keep my eyes on his face and not on my hand that’s digging into his neck.
“That’s not what happened,” I say. “You tripped and hit your head on the floor. It’s a small cut. It’ll heal on its own. You’re going to put this on.” I yank a new, unworn Yankees baseball cap from my bag and toss it to him. “And you’re going to walk out of here and go the fuck home. If you so much as mutter Daphne’s name to anyone, I will hurt you in ways you can’t fathom. It’ll look like a scene inSawby the time I’m finished with you.” Brent doesn’t know he’s already signed his death warrant in my book. I’ll take my time. Plan the perfectly slow and painful murder that fits his crime.
But Iwillkill Brent Sokolov. It’s long overdue. I made a promise to Daphne, and even if I hated the thought of being her hitman before, it feels like a fucking honor now to be the man who ensures Brent will never hurt another woman ever again. I might not know their history, but from what I’ve seen today, I have a fuzzy picture of what may have happened.
