“Blair, you breathing near me is enough to get me rock-hard.”
My cheeks redden, the heat pooling in the pit of my stomach. I swallow thickly, then force myself to look away from his side profile. I close my eyes and take in a deep breath, but it’s not doing much to calm myself.
Stop it, Blair. There’s no time for this.
Later, though.
“Sorry.”
He chuckles. “Don’t apologize. It’s my fault.”
“Well, no,” I point out, looking back at him. “But itdoesn’t matter. What are we going to do once all of his men and Woods himself are dead?”
“Set the entire place on fire. We’re making an example out of him.”
“Good,” I breathe out.
“Could you pass me the gun from the glove compartment? We’re almost there.”
He handed me two guns before we left, and they’re safely tucked in the waistband of my pants at the back. I nod, though I doubt he sees it, then open the compartment. Four guns fall down next to my feet, alongside a piece of paper that’s folded. I take the guns, place them on my lap, and unfold the paper.
“What’s this?”
The question leaves my mouth quickly, but it answers itself when I skim through the list of names.
Terry James.
Samantha Gray.
Jessica Parker.
Matthew Hastings.
Louis Prett.
Dan Smith.
Norman Payne.
These are the names of the jury that was assigned to my case. All of them voted guilty, and it was because of them being on Simmons’ payroll that I was sentenced to life in prison, with no option for bail or, later on, probation.
“You’ve been keeping tabs on them?” I ask, my hands trembling.
The memories of that day resurface. I was only eighteen. I was sitting in the courtroom, all alone, with no friends or family, terrified. I remember the way my body was trembling, the anxiety that filled me. I remember all of their faces, and not a single one held an ounce of sympathy for what I’ve been through. All theycared about was the hefty payment they received after I was found guilty.
“Of course,” Arlo responds. “I’ll kill them, too. It’s only a matter of time.”
I clear my throat, swallowing down the tears. Why does this bother me? It’s been almost a decade since I’ve been sent to prison. I should be over this. It’s in the past, and for all they care, I’m long dead by now. They can’t hurt me.
“Can we add the judge to the list, too?”
“Flip the page.”
I do as told and see the judge’s name — Matilda Johnson — written in bold, underlined in red ink. There’s a lot of basic information written out, alongside something that I doubt could be found just as easily.
“Good,” I release a breath of relief, folding the paper back and putting it in its place.
“Butterfly,” Arlo’s voice is soft, tender as always. He intertwines our fingers together, holding my hand firmly. “Everyone who dared to hurt you will die by your hand. I promise you, I’ll make it happen. The world will fear the wrath of Blair Hawke, and I’ll be the Ghost protecting you.”
