Remy

14. Remy

REMY

“You were goingto rat on me.” I storm down the darkened hall after her, the sweet scent of strawberries claiming my lungs. “What don’t you understand about this situation?”

She ignores me, entering a pitch-black doorway and slapping her hand against a light switch.

Bright light illuminates an open living area where a mass of plants adorn every horizontal space, their vines and leaves creating a forest of green across a television stand and free-floating shelves along the walls. There’s painted art in simplistic frames. Tidy furniture. A modest TV.

I grab her wrist to stop her from walking farther into the room. “I said—what part of this situation don’t you understand?”

She turns on me, yanking her arm from my grip before shoving at my chest with a burst of aggression I don’t see coming. I stumble back a step, my blood rushing south.

“The things I do understand is a much shorter list,” she snaps. “But contrary to popular belief, I wasn’t about to tell anyone anything.”

God, how her anger does things to me. Scorching, reprehensible things.

“Bullshit.” I snarl. “If it hadn’t been for that officer making it clear he knew me, you would’ve eagerly spilled your guts.”

She squares her shoulders and steps up to me.

Steps. Up. To. Me.

“It’s called acting.” She glares. “You know, like the thing you did the night we met?”

I clench my teeth, fucking pissed that she’d dare to turn this around on me.

“I can’t believe how you played me in that dive bar,” she scoffs. “Why go to all that effort to charm me?”

“What effort? You were all over me like a rash.”

Her jaw unhinges, that delectable mouth gaping.

“Is that what you’ve been fixated on while I was locked outside?” I huff a laugh. “Now you’re pissed over me buying you a few drinks?”

“It was more than just drinks.” Her hazel eyes turn pleading. “You didn’t have to use me like that.”

Use. What a remarkably shitty word to describe me succumbing to infatuation.

I’d been the fucking victim.

The one trapped under her spell.

“I needed to keep you occupied.” I shrug. “Salvatore and your father were finalizing negotiations, and they didn’t need interference.”

“You could’ve done it another way. You didn’t have to seduce me. Humiliate me.”

“I think you’re rewriting history, Ollie. As I recall, I warned you that I wasn’t someone to get involved with. Yet you fucking begged me to ruin you.”

She draws back as if I’ve slapped her, her cheeks darkening.

It’s not that I want to fight. Reducing volatility would be a far smarter strategy. But she almost sung to the fucking cops.

“Do you have any other questions before we return to the situation at hand?” I raise a taunting brow.

“There is no situation.” She retreats a step. “I followed orders. I did as instructed. Now leave me alone.”

“You dangled a fucking carrot in front of that nosy neighbor of yours. You were about to tell them everything.”

She crosses her arms over her chest, plumping those beautiful breasts beneath her pajamas. “No, I wasn’t.”

Irritation burns my veins, the toxicity thrumming through my blood. God, she drives me wild.

“Sorry, I forgot—you were acting.” I raise my palms in mock apology. “Please enlighten me on what that acting role was trying to achieve other than placing our freedom in jeopardy.”

She stares at me for long moments, eyes pained, brows furrowed. “I don’t understand you.”

“What can’t you get through that pretty little head, pyro?”

“Everything. How can you be the same guy as the one at the bar? You had me completely fooled.”

That guy had been real enough.

I may have deceived her, but I hadn’t lied. My moral compass had been pointing toward fucking saint territory for the most part. “I guess this is a great life lesson on why you shouldn’t throw yourself at strangers.”

She scowls, all that mouthwatering vulnerability disappearing in an instant. Her lips part, a treasure trove of delicious retorts waiting to be shared, but she snaps her mouth shut and starts for the hall behind me.

Smart.

Restrained.

So fucking beautiful.

“We’re not done here,” I growl.

“Yes, we are.” She makes to walk around me.

“Know your place, Ollie.” I block her path. “Because right now you’re grating on my last nerve, and I’ve been nothing but hospitable up to this point.”

“Hospitable? Are you kidding me?” She nudges past me, continuing into the hall.

I see red. So much mesmerizing, tempting red.

“Like you wouldn’t fucking believe.” I prowl after her, returning the nudge to regain my place in front of her, the hall shadowed around us, the air thick with tension. “I let you leave a hazardous crime scene so you could visit your dad in hospital. I relented to your pleas to return to work, then gave you privacy to fulfill your duties. And when we came here, and you squared those feeble little shoulders and raised your dainty chin in a fucking laughable show of dominance, I gave you your goddamn fucking space.”

“You think allowing me to see my sick father was generous?” Her tone hitches. “In the whole scheme of things?—”

“In the whole scheme of things you should’ve been dead the second you witnessed my men carrying a lifeless fucking body.” I take a threatening step toward her and grin when she retreats in equal measure. “I was being goddamn charitable in letting you live.” I take another step, this time angled, backing her against the wall. “And you best believe that’s exactly what I was doing the night we met.”

She plasters herself against the drywall, chin high, shoulders tense.

“I did you a favor and walked away.” I lean in, getting in her face. “Do you hear me? I did your cock-hungry ass a fucking favor.”

Her jaw ticks. “And now you expect a thank you?”

“I walked away, Ollie. Even though I wanted you. To feel more than just the material of those slick fucking panties. To kiss you. Consume you.”

Surprise flares in her eyes. Or maybe it’s increased disgust.

“The ways in which I wanted to ruin you grew like a rampant fucking virus while we sat in that booth.” The admission spews from me. “I’d ached to fuck you. To drag you onto my lap and slide my cock so deep inside your virginal pussy that your dad would’ve heard you scream from the pleasured pain of it.”

Her breathing labors, her chest rising and falling in quick succession.

She’s scared.

Good.

“And we both know I could’ve had you,” I snarl.

Her delicate throat works over a heavy swallow. “Too bad you don’t mess with virgins.”

Anger slams into my temples. Why doesn’t she know when to shut the fuck up? “Careful or I might just change my mind.”

She gasps.

Great. Just fucking great.

As if our temperamental relationship wasn’t bad enough, I had to threaten sexual assault.

“Are you done?” she rasps.

No.

I want to grab her. Shake her. Fucking kiss the goddamn sass out of her until she learns to keep that pretty mouth shut.

God-fucking-damnit.

I step back and shove a hand through my hair. “Get out of my sight.”

She doesn’t need to be told twice. She slides along the wall until she’s out of reach then storms down the hall and enters what I assume is her bedroom.

“And keep your fucking door open,” I seethe.

She complies even though her animosity consumes the house.

It takes a good thirty seconds to get my feet moving and return to the living room before I do something else I’ll regret… like fucking apologize.

I force myself to crash on the relatively comfortable, oversized sofa, the hours passing with slowly waning bitterness. I spend the night trying to figure out how the hell to fix this mess while also keeping Ollie’s freedom and heartbeat intact.

Problem is, every achievable outcome hinges on my trust and her respect—neither of which seem attainable.

Morning arrives with little rest for the wicked. It’s barely light out when I message Flynn to bring me a change of clothes, along with a folder of information I requested during the midnight hours from a source within the Baltimore PD, then help myself to a mug of instant coffee while I wait for the kid to arrive.

I’m on Ollie’s porch, making more calls, when the testosterone-filled teen pulls up in the Chevy Impala I bought him a few months ago.

“Howdy, boss.” He walks along the garden path toward me, a garment bag draped over one arm with a take-out food bag balanced on top, while his other hand is clamped around a manila folder.

“Hey.” I jerk my chin at his haul. “Did you get everything?”

“You know I did.” He hands over the folder. “What happened to you? You look like shit.”

“Watch it.” I snatch the offering with a fake glower and flick through the pages to make sure the contents are what I asked for.

He snickers. “Are you angry because of the party I threw last night?”

I raise my gaze to his and wait for him to elaborate. The kid has been living with me since I found him sleeping in a dirty corner of the underground parking lot of my apartment building. Four easy months where I can’t recall him attending a party let alone showing interest in throwing one. I’m not sure he even has friends.

“You should’ve been there,” he taunts. “It was huge. The music was pumping. People were dancing. I even figured out how to unlock your liquor cabinet. You might just want to be patient while I clean up. It’s going to take days, if not weeks.”

I smirk. “Nice try, kid, but I’ve got eyes on that penthouse at all times.”

Disappointment takes over his features. “Really? Well, shit. I thought for sure a party would crack your annoying composure.” He sighs. “Why are you always so chill? My dad could never keep his temper. Even over the smallest things.”

“I’m not your dad.” I rest the folder on top of the metal porch railing and hold out a hand, indicating for the garment bag. Chill is far from what I’ve been these past twenty-four hours, but the last thing I want is him knowing what riles me. Or, more accurately, who. “Are you sure you got everything?”

He hands the clothes over. “Of course. Suit. Shirt. Socks. It didn’t skip my attention that you didn’t ask for underwear, which is gross, but you do you, man.”

I roll my eyes and unzip the garment bag.

“You got a woman in there?” He tips his head toward Ollie’s house, drags a vape from his pocket, and takes a puff.

“That’s none of your business. And didn’t I tell you to quit that smoking shit?”

“Probably.” He takes another inhale then releases the mint-scented toxic air. “I can’t remember.”

“I’m not kidding, Flynn. It’ll fuck up your lungs.”

He shrugs. “Maybe. But I’m not gonna lie, I feel kinda invincible since you started looking out for me.”

Dread worms its way into my gut. “My protection makes you far from invincible.” If anything my presence in his life is a threat, but it’s better than him dumpster diving for food.

“Don’t worry, boss. I can look after myself.”

I snatch the folder from the railing and the food bag from his arm. “Quit the vapes or we’ll be revisiting the boarding school discussion.”

His face falls, and he shoves the device back into his pocket.

I already tried to get him into a nearby school, but that shit didn’t stick. Apparently the kid is dyslexic and has a lifetime of judgement hanging off his shoulders. Not even the offer of expensive tutors was enough to get him to stick it out for longer than a day.

So I gave him a job instead. A glorified go-fer role.

He’s been on cloud-nine ever since. At least when he’s not trying to test my limits to see if I’ll kick him to the curb.

“You should get going.” I start for the house. “Keep your phone on in case I need anything else.”

“Sure thing. Will you be home tonight?”

I pause at the door, the thought of leaving Ollie unsupervised bringing unease. “I doubt it.”

I walk back into the house and find the woman in question standing in the kitchen still dressed in those cute pajamas, her hair pulled back in a messy pony as she eyes me over the steaming mug cradled in her hands.

“Morning.” I kick the door shut behind me.

“Morning,” she mutters into her drink.

Two syllables and eye contact. I guess it’s better than a glare and a verbal spray.

“I ordered breakfast.” I dump my haul on her dining table beside the cute pea-like plant centerpiece, determined to be civil, and fold the garment bag over the back of a chair. “You must be starving.”

“No, thanks.”

I ignore the caustic tone and take the response and feigned gratitude as a win.

“Did you sleep well?” I open the food bag and delve inside.

She sighs, long and weary. “It’s too early to pretend to play happy families. Can we at least wait until the caffeine kicks in?”

“Of course. I’m nothing if not excessively patient.”

She scoffs into her mug and takes a sip, her gaze not leaving mine.

I don’t let the animosity get to me. I can’t.

We have to figure this shit out or she’s dead. Simple as that.

“I’ll be the first to admit yesterday was a cluster fuck.” I turn my attention to the food bag and shove a hand inside. “I’m hoping we can find a way to see eye to eye.”

I was too hard on her.

Too threatening.

She’s not merely virginal in the sexual sense but also when it comes to the ways of the world. Her father warned me she’s isolated. That she lives in a vacuum. Few friends. Minimal social interaction.

Me storming into her life would’ve felt like the start of Armageddon.

“I guess that sounds like a good idea,” she grumbles.

My gaze snaps to hers.

Is she fucking with me?

Her expression remains impassive. Her stance, emotionless.

“I know I have to comply,” she adds. “I’ve always known. And in my defense, I asked numerous times for space so I could make all this sit right in my head. The sleepless night gave me that. I’ll co-operate.”

The hair on the back of my neck prickles.

She’s definitely fucking with me. Right?

“That’s quite a backflip.” I pull two breakfast burritos from the bag. “Especially when you came so close to snitching.”

She heaves a heavy breath. “I’d like to consider myself a relatively smart woman, Remy. So I can say with complete honesty that snitching was never an option. I wouldn’t risk my father’s life like that, let alone mine. Obviously I’m not going to win any awards for thinking on my feet in life-threatening situations, but what I was attempting last night was to stall. Lesley knows me too well to have listened to me blurt my private life without hesitation. I didn’t want to make her more suspicious.”

I remain quiet in the hopes she’ll continue trying to persuade me because I’m not convinced. I slide a breakfast burrito across the table in her direction before unwrapping the top of mine.

“She’s an extremely perceptive woman. One who’s well aware I like to suffer in silence,” she says. “If I spewed my father’s health secrets without at least a little reluctance, she wouldn’t have stopped her interrogation until we’d both passed a polygraph.”

Her eyes hold mine. There’s none of the venom from yesterday. None of the seething hatred. She’s adamant. Possibly telling the truth.

“What I’d been about to say, before you jammed your gun harder against my back, was that I’d had a horrible day but that you had taken care of me. That your kindness was the only reason I wasn’t a blubbering mess. And that I assumed you were snooping around my yard because I’d pushed you away when I became irrationally emotional.” She places her mug on the counter behind her and wraps her arms around her middle. “I was trying to create a believable story. The truth had never been an option. That’s why I’d dug my nails into your hand. To get you to hold fire on any knee-jerk reaction.”

“I thought you were being vindictive.”

“No.” Her gaze turns pleading. “I was being strategic.”

I’m tempted to believe her. The worst part is that I know exactly why I’m preparing to turn coat so easily.

It’s her beauty.

Her innocence.

I’d gobble up her words whether truth, lie, or fiction. Hell, I could listen to her tell me the world was flat and walk away convinced.

“I know what’s at stake.” Her throat works over a delicate swallow. “And although I don’t appreciate the position I’m in, I’d much less prefer to be the next person you throw in my retort.”

I take a bite of burrito, praying that outcome doesn’t eventuate. “Thanks for the clarification.”

“Do you believe me?” She stares at me, her gaze hopeful.

Jesus Christ.

Her viciousness was a drug. Her anger an injection of lust.

But expectant Ollie? Imploring Ollie?

That shit shoves its greedy little hand straight through my chest to grasp my heart in a death grip.

“I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.” I take another bite. “For now.”

“I suppose that’s all I can ask for.” She pads toward me, the plush material of her pajamas hugging her curves. “Who was outside?”

“A friend.”

“Should I be worried that another dangerous man now knows where I live?”

“No.” I shove more food in my mouth. “He’s just a kid. He’s no threat. He brought me a fresh suit and our breakfast.” I tilt my burrito in her direction. “It’s good, by the way. You should eat.”

She glances at the take-out bag, then the wrapped burrito in front of her.

“You don’t like burritos?” I ask.

“I do. It’s just…”

“What?” I say around a mouthful. “You think I’ve done something to the food?”

“No.” She scrunches her nose. “I’m still struggling with my appetite. This situation is a gold-star weight-loss program.”

I don’t want her to lose weight. She’s perfect the way she is. Slim and taut in places. Lush and rounded in others.

“But I did spend most of the night trying to justify everything that’s happened,” she continues. “I didn’t get to a point where I can condone what you do, but I’m slowly coming to the understanding that your agreement with my father wouldn’t change how you conduct your business. Those people would still die, right?”

“Right.” Although the effortless disposal does make the complication of murder a hell of a lot easier.

She continues focusing on the food, her brow furrowing, the etch of dismay digging across her forehead.

“So what part has killed your appetite?” I want to see her eat. To nurture her instead of torture her, no matter how fucking pathetic that makes me.

That cute little scrunch in her nose increases. “I can’t stop seeing his body. Can’t quit hearing the groan.” Her gaze rises to mine. “I feel responsible for that man’s death.”

Her suffering does shitty things to me. Uncomfortable, fucked up things. It has since the moment I walked into the funeral home’s delivery room early yesterday morning.

What a troublesome fucking time to grow a conscience.

I take the last mouthful of burrito and ball up the trash before sliding the manila cardboard toward her. “Open it.”

She frowns and takes the chair in front of her, hesitating as her fingers brush the offering. “Do I need to prepare myself for what’s inside?”

“Probably.”

She sits taller, her eyes curious as she drags the file closer, then finally flips it open.

I expect a gasp. A cry, maybe.

I get neither.

She’s a fucking mortician, dickhead.

She stares at the first picture, her lips slightly parted, her shock hidden.

“Is this another warning?” she asks softly, slowly turning over the top photo of a battered and deceased female to display a similar one beneath. “A far more graphic display of what’s to come if I don’t follow your rules?”

“No. This isn’t my handiwork.”

Her shoulders relax. A little too much for my liking.

The fact she thinks I’m capable of achieving a crime resulting in those pictures isn’t a welcomed news flash.

She turns another page and another. Photo upon photo of raped, bruised, and beaten women. “Tell me what I’m looking at.”

“This is the legacy left behind by the man you harbor guilt toward.” I snatch the food bag off the table, forcing myself not to become fixated on whatever relief the knowledge might bring, and scrounge inside for another burrito. “This was his favorite pastime.”

She doesn’t react, only continues to turn to the next photo, then the next.

“He was a murderer like me.” I itch to touch her. Soothe her. Instead I keep scrounging around in the bag, my fingers brushing over more burritos I no longer have the stomach to eat. “But one thing we didn’t have in common was our treatment of the opposite sex. I never hurt women, Ollie. Except, evidently, the one seated before me.”

Her attention raises to mine for brief moments of confusion. Those big, beautiful eyes peer back at me in bewilderment.

“I may scare you,” I mutter. “I may sicken and disgust. But you’re the only female I’ve inflicted that upon. I’m a monster to men, pyro. To those who deserve my punishment.”

She continues staring for silent moments, anticipation for her reply grasping my balls in a vise grip until she returns her attention to the photos.

I quit the pretense of searching for food and dump the bag, circling the table to stop at her side. “This guy doesn’t deserve your guilt.” I tap the image of the deceased woman covered in ligature marks, the damage most prominent between her thighs. “He’d done this to more women than you could imagine.”

“Is that why you targeted him?”

I wish I could give her the answer she wants. The sweet, virtuous response that would make me seem like a better man.

“No. But it’s reason enough for you not to spare him a second thought. You didn’t kill him, Ollie. I did. That groan was nothing more than an inopportune coincidence.”

Her gaze meets mine. “How did you do it?”

I’ve risked enough from verbalizing guilt, yet I’m still drawn to give her more. Give her everything. “Lethal overdose—a far quicker death than he deserved.”

Thoughts race behind those dreamy eyes, her quiet musing getting to me. I want to know what she’s thinking. What she’s feeling.

She returns her attention to the photos, her expression pained as she stares at a full-face image of a blonde girl in her early twenties, her pale eyes lifeless, lips parted, skin bruised.

“I know her.” She traces a finger over the victim’s jaw, her chin. “I think her name was Jasmin Taylor. She was one of my decedents a few years back. What he did to her was…”

“Nothing more than a game to him.”

“I can see that.” She swallows.

“Do you still feel guilty?”

“Definitely not as much as I did a few minutes ago.” She closes the folder and squares her shoulders. “Are all the men you kill like him?”

I’m tempted to lie. To tell her each and every one is a woman-torturing rapist, and I’m performing some sort of worldly Robin Hood-type duty she could excuse.

But that’s not me. Not the world I live in.

I can’t allow myself to indulge in the fantasy of her approval. To imagine a recreated moment where she grants my hands another trip along her perfect thighs to those heavenly panties.

She’s a fucking virgin, for God’s sake.

Civility is where this relationship needs to be. And only civility.

“No, pyro.” I force myself to grab the garment bag from the chair and head toward her bathroom. “I may not kill for sport, but I sure as hell do it for profit and convenience. Never forget that.”