Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“I know who I am.” I bring my fingers to my chest. “And I above all people know what I’m capable of.”
“And what about me?” He takes a step toward me, but I hold up my hand. Stop. Don’t. Let’s not do this again. “You think I deserve better? That I’m worth more than you? You don’t know a fucking thing,” he says, coming closer anyway. “The night back in October when I left you in the foyer. It wasn’t for condoms.” In front of me now, he tips my chin as he says so softly, “It was so I could go and beat some sense into that fuckhead. One of them, anyway.”
I feel my brow furrow.
“Brandon,” he spits. “I wanted to smash in his face, but I was careful. I didn’t want you to cop trouble. Not at work,” he adds like a taunt.
Something blooms hot in my chest—a realization. After that night, the asshole pretty much left me alone. I thought he’d gotten the message finally. And he had. I just hadn’t realized the mode of delivery. “Why would you do that?”
“Because he deserved it. Because I hate bullies. Now ask me what I did to the other fucker.”
“To Pete?” I’d know if he . . .
“Best not say his name around me, teacup. Not when I’m feeling this charged.”
“You wouldn’t—”
“Hurt you? Never.” His thumb strokes my cheek. “Can’t say the same for anyone else, though.”
“What did you do, Matt?”
“Just . . . systematically destroyed your ex. His livelihood. And the company you used to work for.”
“But you said—”
“I know what I said. I also know what I’ve done. And the two aren’t the same.” He gives a casual flick of his wrist. “You didn’t want to. Said you’d prefer to leave it all in the past. But . . .” He pulls away and shoves his hands into his pockets, almost rocking on his heels. “There are always consequences, Ryan. Without them, how do we learn?”
“No.”
“I punished that fucker in the bathroom for making you feel powerless. And maybe the fact that he didn’t get away with it means next time he’ll think twice. Next time, he won’t push it further—impose his will in much worse ways. Same goes for Pete, though on a much grander scale.”
My heart sinks, but not for what he’s done. For what I might’ve driven him to.
“Consequences,” he adds. “There should always be consequences. For breaking the law, breaking promises, bending rules. Or what’s the point?”
“You’re not—” Judge and jury, I was about to say.
“Would you like to see him do to his wife what he did to you?”
“It’s not my place to police him.” And she’s not my responsibility.
“It’s not my place either. But don’t confuse my motives. I’m no knight in shining armor. It was pure ego. I wanted to hurt him, and so I have. Ruined him for what he did to you. See?” He holds out his hands. “Not so perfect after all.”
“This changes nothing, Matt. In fact, it makes my point. I did this, didn’t I? I’m the catalyst for all this ugliness.”
The look he sends me is pure disgust. “You want to play the martyr, you go on ahead. Because fuck you for doing this. For leaving me. You’ll always be the missing part of my life.”
“Maybe you should fight me.”
Consternation flickers on his brow. Confusion, maybe.
“Not fight for me. Fight to protect our child,” I say, pressing my hands to my stomach. My heart beats out of my chest as the things he’s said and done begin to swirl through my head. Without me, he wouldn’t have been pushed to this. This is not who he is.
“What are you talking about?”
The ugliness bubbles up inside, my admission. My confession. Am I really going to tell—share the secret I have held inside me all these years? Reveal my black soul and admit to the act of retribution there is no repenting for?
“I don’t deserve all this . . . goodness.” I press my hands to my belly as my eyes fill with tears and my heart with shame. “I don’t deserve to be happy, and I don’t deserve to be a mother. Not when I killed my own.”
Chapter 40
Matt
In front of me, Ryan begins to shake, the tremors running through her body almost seismic.
“Oh, God.” Her hand moves in slow motion, rising to her face. “I’ve never said that out loud before.” She presses her fingers to her lips as though she might be sick.
Immobile, I can’t make sense of what she just said.
Was it a birth thing?
She grew up with her mother—she said she left. Which means . . .
No. She’s no killer.
Killer. The word rebounds from the walls of my brain as I recall her heated reaction in October when I playfully called her that—and when those fucknuts from Dreyland called her the same.