Page 97 of Vicious Temptation

Something inside me finally snaps.

“No. You don’t get to show up here and decide when I have to talk to you.” I step closer, and all the frustration I’ve been choking down since last night suddenly spills out.

“I was chased through the fucking county by cops, Braga. I was cuffed, shoved into a holding cell, and spent hours staring at concrete walls.”

A flash of guilt crosses his face, but I’m not done.

“And now I wake up to another cop at my fucking door telling me he wants to talk?” I let out a sharp laugh. “Read the room.”

“Remi, I’m not here as a cop.”

“I don’t care what you’re here as.” I point toward the hallway. “I want you to leave.”

“Just give me a chance to explain.”

“I don’t want an explanation, Braga. I want you gone.”

I turn away from him, but his fingers close around my wrist. My gaze drops to his hand, then slowly lifts to his face.

“Let. Go.”

“Remi, just listen to me.”

“I said let go.”

He doesn’t, and that’s the last fucking straw.

I spin and drive my fist straight into his abdomen, or into the brick wall cosplaying as one. Pain shoots through my already-bruised knuckles, but I ignore it.

I was trained better than that.

My next punch lands on his ribs and finally draws a grunt from him.

“Remi, stop.”

But now I’m the one not listening.

I twist out of his grip and drive my elbow toward his jaw. He catches my forearm before it can connect, so I pivot and sweep my leg behind his knee, knocking him off balance by a step.

“Remi…”

Ripping free, I throw another punch straight at his throat. Thiago blocks it, but not cleanly, and my knuckles clip his jaw, snapping his head to the side.

“That all you got, Officer?” I hiss.

His head turns slowly back toward me, and the fire in his eyes pushes all the wrong buttons. Then he comes at me for real.

Thiago catches my wrist again, but I move with him instead of fighting against his strength. I twist beneath his arm, drive my fist into his ribs, and slam my shoulder into his chest.

He barely fucking moves.

Most men would already be on the floor by now, but Thiago absorbs the hit and looks down at me as if I just confirmed something he’s been wondering about.

“Jesus,” he mutters, sounding almost impressed.

My gaze darts to the foyer table and the hidden compartment beneath it, where I keep one of my blades.

Thiago follows my eyes.