Chapter 21
Chapter
Twenty-One
“You not only are hunted by others, you unknowingly hunt yourself.”
― Dejan Stojanovi?
Angelo
I had known she was going to drive me insane on this trip.
Yet every damn time her pretty mouth had pouted, whatever fight I’d had left drained right out of me.
Every. Single. Time.
When she was near, all I could do was cling to the last threads of my control—fighting the demons clawing at me, barely resisting the urge to shut her up, to make her choke on every venom-soaked word… or shove her to her knees and fill that wicked mouth and see those sharp eyes soften, surrendering completely to me.
And now, the little devil had seen me naked.
When her eyes had locked on me—wide with admiration and fucking lust—I’d almost lost it.
I was this close to letting go and taking her, after years of fighting it.
Maybe I should’ve taken her up on that ridiculous mile high club offer after all.
As much as it killed me to admit, she was the perfect distraction from the rage clawing at me, begging to tear Greg apart right here, right now.
I brought the cigar to my lips as we sat in his library, the black leather couch surrounded by shelves of books and trophies.
My father sat across from me, glaring.
He was pissed. He’d wanted me to deal with Greg yesterday.
But I was patient. My revenge was slow—something far more satisfying than just pulling a trigger.
Kilian Greg, Spencer’s husband, was slouched next to my father, still drunk from last night. The guy had probably skipped dinner to gamble away his money at the casino. Addict. I almost felt sorry for him—but some messes didn’t clean up easily.
“What about a hunt tonight?” Greg said, smoke curling from his cigar. “Perfect weather to track boars or bears. Something that might actually put up a fight.”
The words left his mouth, but all I could hear was the blood rushing in my ears.
I knew he was talking about me. The bastard probably thought I’d given up on punishing him—not just for stealing from me, but for the trouble of having the actress’ blood on my hands.
Hunting didn’t sound good, especially with him.
My hands itched—not for a rifle, but for the look of terror in Greg’s eyes as I tore his life apart, piece by fucking piece.
“I’m down,” Lucius Harper said, stretching and leaving.
The others trailed behind, too lazy for the hunt.
It’d be just me, Greg, and Harper. My father bailed without a word.
Now it was just the two of us, the room thick with cigar smoke and barely contained hate.
“She was a good fuck,” Greg finally said, like it meant nothing. “Got too clingy, though. You’d think a woman her age would act her damn years. Still, you killing her? That shit’s been bugging me.”
There it fucking was.
I took a slow drag, letting the smoke burn in my lungs before exhaling toward him. “Ah, my bad.”
Why stop there?
“If it can make you feel worse,” I said, leaning forward just enough, “she was crying for you right before I put a bullet here.” I tapped my forehead.
He scoffed. “Poor girl.”
But the way his jaw tightened? That crack in his mask? I saw it.
He wasn’t as unaffected as he wanted me to believe.
It almost made me smile.
Almost.
I leaned back, letting the cigar burn between my fingers.
“Should’ve kept her in line. Might’ve saved her life.”
He leaned forward just a fraction, eyes narrowing. “And what’s gonna save yours?”
I let my smirk deepen. “Nothing, Greg. Just like nothing’s fucking saving yours.”
I extinguished the cigar with a deliberate twist, the embers fizzling out like the last shreds of mercy I’d ever had.
Rising, I towered over him, fists clenched tight—like I was holding back something far worse.
I didn’t spare him a glance as I walked out, but the words still burned my throat.
I’d tear him apart, piece by fucking piece.
And when I was done, he’d beg for death to take him—because it would be the only mercy left.