14. Vuk
CHAPTER 14
Vuk
W hile Ayana answered the door, I went to the dryer and retrieved my shirt. I pulled it over my head, my mind seething with the mistakes I’d made today.
Offering Ayana a ride. Agreeing to come upstairs. Telling her about my past with Jordan. Fucking laughing .
All perilous missteps that drew me closer to her orbit when I should’ve been keeping my distance.
I’d sold her a half-truth about the Brotherhood and what I needed Jordan’s money for, but if she’d asked me for details, I might’ve told her—not everything, but enough that she would look at me the way other people did. Like I was a monster in a man’s clothing.
In her eyes, I was a better man than I would ever be, and I was too selfish and masochistic to disavow her of that notion.
If I couldn’t have all of her, then I’d hoard the piece of her that still offered me a glimpse of hope for redemption.
The low murmur of voices from the entryway intruded into my thoughts. One male, one female.
Ayana and who? Jordan? An overly friendly neighbor? Who the fuck was visiting her in the middle of a Wednesday afternoon?
The possibilities dug under my skin.
I shut the dryer door and headed into the living room. Ayana’s back faced me, but I spotted the tension pouring off her body from a dozen feet away.
“I went there to consult on something for the wedding. That’s all,” she said. An edge ran beneath her calm tone.
“I see.” The oily response made my molars slam together. Hank fucking Carson. I’d recognize his sleazy voice anywhere. “I find that interesting, considering Brown, Kermit I had a more pressing issue at hand.
One text to Sean had turned up Hank’s address and license plate number, while an educated guess led me to believe the agent had gone straight home after leaving Ayana’s place.
His senior agent role at Beaumont meant he had more flexibility to work from home. It was too late for lunch and too early for dinner, and Ayana’s apartment was relatively far from the neighborhoods where fashion types usually met. If he’d had a packed afternoon, he wouldn’t have had time to see her and make it to his meetings. Ergo, his most likely location was at home.
One knock proved me right.
Hank opened the door, still dressed in the same shirt and tacky watch he’d sported earlier. His eyes rounded when he saw me. “What are you—hey!” He yelped when I shouldered past him. “You can’t just come in like that! You’re trespassing!”
I ignored his caterwauling and assessed his apartment with a dispassionate glance. It was an open space, so there were no walls dividing the living room from the kitchen and dining areas. Flat-screen TV, magazines stacked on the coffee table, dirty dishes in the sink. The typical bachelor pad.
“Get out or I’ll call the police.” Hank fumbled with his phone, his hand shaking. “Right now.”
I strode to the kitchen and plucked an apple from the fruit basket.
“Did you hear me?” His voice pitched higher. “I’m calling the police!”
I pulled a knife out of the wooden block.
Hank’s face paled, but he didn’t dial 911. It would take time for the police to get here, and I could do a lot in a short amount of time.
His tone turned coaxing. “Is this about Ayana? Because I swear, I was only there to check up on her. She’s one of my most important clients. I care about her well-being.”
Funny how fast he switched up. He didn’t seem so tough now that he didn’t have an easy target to intimidate.
I slowly peeled off the apple’s skin with the knife. The methodical motion restrained my rage, but the more Hank babbled, the more those restraints frayed.
His voice reminded me of his conversation with Ayana. His conversation with Ayana reminded me of how upset she’d been—and of what I’d overheard before I made my presence known.
I love Jordan.
The keen edge of the blade tore through the apple’s flesh. A chunk of it fell into the sink next to the pieces of skin.
Had she been lying, or had she been telling the truth? I’d convinced myself she wasn’t as excited about the wedding as a bride should be.
Perhaps I’d been wrong.
The last piece of skin landed in the sink. I took a bite of apple while Hank fell silent. He appeared to have realized his odds of survival were better if he didn’t talk so fucking much.
I didn’t take a second bite. Instead, I walked toward him, knife and apple in hand. My steps echoed against the bare wooden floors.
Hank inched back until he hit the couch. His gaze darted toward the door, clearly gauging his odds of escaping before I reached him. They weren’t good.
I stopped a foot away. Up close, Hank’s eyes were slightly bloodshot, and he reeked of cologne. He stared up at me, his face several shades paler than normal.
My rage simmered and swelled. It strained at its leash, begging me to let it loose and carve out my frustrations on a man who was little more than an overblown bully.
The wedding. The Brotherhood. The stress on Ayana’s face when she’d been talking to him.
All that would feel so much better with a little slice or two.
My gaze flicked from Hank’s face to his hand, to the couch, and back again. A crinkle formed between his brows before realization dawned.
He opened his mouth, then shut it and rested a shaky hand on the top of the couch.
I shook my head and notched my chin up. He hesitated before turning his hand palms up. Beads of sweat dotted his hairline.
I placed the apple in his palm—softly, almost gently.
A beat passed. The crinkle in his brow smoothed, and his shoulders relaxed. “If you?—”
He cut off with a piercing scream as I brought the knife down. It happened so swiftly Hank didn’t get a chance to react before I drove the blade straight through the core.
His scream was still ringing in the air when the tip of the blade met human flesh. Blood stained the fruit, its faint coppery scent mixing with the smell of urine as Hank pissed himself.
He held the apple, seemingly catatonic with shock as I stepped back. The knife quivered from the residual force of my violence before it finally stilled.
If I hadn’t stopped when I had, it would’ve torn through muscle and bone and rendered his right hand useless.
My lip curled. I’d merely nicked him, but his near brush with mutilation had wiped away all his false bravado. His skin resembled wax paper as he shook like a lone leaf in the wind.
He had no problem threatening or spying on Ayana, but push back a little and he pissed himself.
Pathetic.
I left him in his apartment, covered in piss and blood, and calmly made my way back to my car.
If I’d had my way, I would’ve taken things a few steps further. However, Ayana was the last person he’d been seen with—her building’s security would’ve documented his arrival—and I didn’t want to place her in the middle of a murder investigation.
So no, I couldn’t deal with the agent the way I wanted yet, but I’d accomplished what I’d set out to do.
What happened in Hank’s apartment proved you didn’t always need words to communicate.
He’d heard my warning loud and clear.