Chapter 25 Victor
VICTOR
I watch Willow duck her head, a flush creeping up her cheeks.
In my mind, I can see her like she was a few days ago, when Malice was here. I remember his head between her legs, and the way she writhed and thrashed on the bed, losing herself in the pleasure he was giving her.
I hate that I can remember every single detail of it—and that the thought still makes my cock twitch.
Willow seems to desperately want to move on, and I let her, not wanting to talk about it either. I’d rather pretend it never happened. She eats the rest of her soup in silence, her face still red. When she finishes, she puts the spoon down and finally looks at me again.
“Are you going to leave now?” she asks, and it’s clear she wants me to.
“No.”
She presses her plush lips together in frustration. “Why not? I’m not an exciting person. Unless you want to do more random housekeeping, you’re wasting your time.”
“You’ve been sick all weekend,” I point out. “If you don’t eat well and take care of yourself, you’ll slow down your recovery.”
“I’m already feeling a lot better,” she insists.
“Good. Then the soup is working.”
She stares at me for a bit, as if she’s trying to come up with some argument that will convince me to go.
But I know she won’t, because I’ve already decided to spend the rest of the day here, blocking off that time in my head.
Maybe she realizes that there’s nothing she can say to change my mind, because she finally gives up and pushes back from the table, padding into the living room.
I can hear her muttering under her breath as I clean up the dishes and cookware, and then the TV comes on. When I finish up and follow her into the small living room, there’s some home improvement show on, and she’s watching the screen intently.
I brush off the couch cushion to make sure there aren’t any tissues or crumbs lurking on the worn fabric, then sit down next to her.
For a while, we watch in silence. The show is terrible, full of people who are trying to live outside their means and making awful design choices along the way.
A woman with overdone makeup and an attitude problem starts acting like her kitchen backsplash is the most important thing in the world to her, and I frown, glancing over at Willow.
“Why do you like this so much?” I ask. “It’s not good.”
She hesitates for a second, then shrugs a shoulder.
“I don’t know, I just like seeing people turn their lives around.
I like watching them make their home beautiful and create something better for themselves.
Like this lady. Her house was half destroyed by a storm, and now they’re coming in and fixing it up for her, exactly how she wants it.
Everything was shitty, and now she’s getting a second chance. I just think that’s… nice.”
I narrow my eyes, first at her and then at the screen. The lady she talks about so fondly is currently making the interior designer’s life hell by not being able to choose a tile for the all-important backsplash.
I don’t really get it. The show is crap, and the people are doing everything wrong with their decorating choices. The tile the woman chooses is a terrible color, and it’s going to clash with her counters in the worst way.
But there’s something fascinating about the way Willow watches the show. It makes me stare at the TV more intently, trying to figure out what it is about it that speaks to her so much.
When that episode ends, another one comes on, this one aimed at helping two newlyweds repair the wife’s grandmother’s old house so they can live in it.
Willow is just as invested in this new episode, and I find myself glancing over at her often, soaking up her reactions as if they’re pieces of treasure.
The latest episode wraps up, and when I look over at her again, she’s asleep, her head lolling to one side as she breathes softly and evenly.
I can’t help but watch her, my gaze tracking over her features. The bruises are fading, having turned from purple to a soft yellowish green, although there’s still a dark mark under one of her eyes. My cock starts to harden as I focus on her lips, pink and probably petal soft.
No.
I drag in a deep breath and then another, tapping my fingers against my thigh in an even rhythm while I count in my head so that I can get myself under control. I’ve already caved once and broken my usual routine for her. I can’t let that become a habit.
She shifts a little on the couch, her shoulder nearly brushing against mine, and I stiffen, torn between staying where I am and moving to avoid the contact.
Before I can decide, there’s a knock on the door, and I glance toward it sharply.
It’s late for visitors, already dark out, and I know Willow never has people over.
She jerks awake at the sound when whoever it is knocks again, blinking and glancing over at me. I move on silent feet to the door and look out the peephole, making a face when I recognize her old boss from the strip club. Carl, I think his name is.
What the fuck is he doing here?
“It’s the man you used to work for,” I whisper after striding back over to where Willow is standing in front of the couch. “Let him in.”
Her eyes widen, and then she nods, moving to the door to do what I said.
I grab my bag and duck into her bedroom, pulling my gun out and gripping it loosely in my hand as I wait. I listen, peering through a small crack between the door and the frame as she unlocks her front door and then pulls it open.
“Carl?” she asks, surprise and wariness in her tone. “What is it?”
As soon as the door is open wide enough to allow entry, he strides into her apartment and starts pacing, his lanky body radiating nervous energy.
“What are you doing here?” Willow prompts again.
He turns to her, running a hand through stringy hair that’s thinning a little in the front. “Someone came to see me tonight. He was asking about the brothel and the night it burned down. Wanted to know if any of my girls were there when it happened.”
“Oh.” Willow’s voice is quiet.
“I told him none of mine were there when it happened.” His gaze snaps to her, a shrewd look on his face. “That’s what you told me. And it’s true, isn’t it?”
There’s something in his tone that makes it pretty clear he knows it isn’t. Somehow, he’s figured out that Willow wasn’t being completely honest with him when she said she was no longer there when the fire started. Or he’s just guessing.
She shakes her head, also picking up on what he’s implying. “I wasn’t there, Carl,” she insists. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He takes a step closer to her, and my hand tightens around my gun.
“I know you’re hiding something,” he growls. “I don’t know what’s going on, but if you’ve got a secret, you’re gonna have to make it worth my while to keep it for you.”
Willow takes a step back, but he keeps advancing, staring right at her.
“I told the guy that none of my girls were there that night. I didn’t tell him about you. But that could change, you know what I’m saying?”
His threat is clear, and Willow blanches, her brown eyes wide.
“I already told you everything,” she insists, licking her lips. “I’m not hiding anything.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Carl snorts. “That’s what they all say. I’m telling you, you have two options. You give me what I want and all of this stays quiet. Or I go find that guy and give him what he wants.”
Willow’s gaze flicks toward the bedroom where I’m hiding, then back to Carl. “So what do you want?”
He shrugs. “What the fuck do you think? Money. You told me you had to leave Sapphire because you needed something that would pay you better, so I figure you should be able to buy my silence.”
She swallows. “How much?”
“Twenty thousand.”
“What?” Her jaw drops. “Carl, I can’t—”
He snorts, derision clear in his face. “Oh, so your attempt to make it big in the world didn’t pay off?
I told you they always come crawling back.
That’s okay. Since that john Giselle found for you decided not to fuck you after all, I’ll cut you a deal.
You bend over and take it like a good little slut, and I’ll cut my price down to ten thousand instead. ”
He reaches for her as he speaks, hooking an arm around her waist and yanking her closer, vindictive anger burning in his eyes. There’s not even any desire there. He just wants to hurt her for fucking him over.
That thought jabs through my brain like a red hot poker, and I wrench the bedroom door open, moving before I even realize it. I charge toward him, grabbing the back of his neck with one hand and yanking him away from Willow.
He doesn’t see me coming, and the suddenness of my attack catches him off guard.
He lets go of Willow, who scrambles away as Carl spins to face me, lashing out with a wild punch.
He clips the side of my cheek, sending my head whipping to the side, but I recover quickly and bum rush him, bringing him down to the floor.
We grapple for my weapon, and I headbutt him, then yank a pillow off the couch and shove it against his chest, pressing the barrel of the gun against it before firing twice.
Carl jerks, then goes still.
Willow claps her hands over her mouth to stifle a scream, her gaze riveted to the pool of blood slowly spreading across the floor beneath the pillow-covered body.
I grit my teeth, rising to my feet and looking down at the mess with distaste.
The impulse to clean it up is strong, but I grip the back of the couch, forcing myself to ignore it.
Killing Carl was a mistake, and I’m pissed at myself for being so fucking impulsive. I should have tried to disable him instead of outright killing him. Then maybe my brothers and I could’ve gotten information from him, interrogating him to find out who came to see him asking about the brothel.
Shooting him wasn’t the smart or logical thing to do. I lost control and let my emotions take over, and that’s never how I like to do things.
Willow is still rooted in place, her luminous eyes wide with shock. She gapes at the body, her face white as a sheet, and I let out a sigh, turning away from the seeping blood and pulling out my phone to call my brothers.