No.
No fucking way.
My stomach twists.
Did my own father put those bruises on her?
Did he put his hands on her?
“Fuck!” I roar.
He’s not violent.
At least not to my knowledge.
But then again, how much do I really know?
I haven’t lived at home in years. I’ve been shipped off to boarding school since I was about five, only returning for the holidays. Then, at eighteen, I had a house built for myself.
Fuck, I refuse to believe it.
I refuse.
But the possibility is there all the same.
A whisper at the back of my mind that refuses to shut up.
Perhaps it’s instinct.
Whatever it is, I can’t ignore it.
Because if he’s a monster hiding behind designer suits and impeccable manners, then I just left her alone with him.
I shove away from the body, turn on my heel and head for the stairs at a run.
A few seconds later, I’m behind the wheel when someone knocks on the driver’s window.
I look up and find Harry waiting outside.
I bring the window down.
Harry is officially my chief of staff, though in reality he handles just about everything I throw at him and never so much as raises an eyebrow.
“Make sure he’s burned. I don’t want a single trace left behind,” I say.
I don’t usually make a habit of killing people.
I leave that sort of thing to Isaak and Milo.
But I’m not exactly innocent myself.
I’ve killed before.
As I’ve said, I was born wrong in the head.
The difference is that I prefer a boxing ring. That’s where I beat every ounce of pent up rage from my system and silence the noise in my head.
After that, I can return to the carefully crafted illusion of control and perfection I present to the world.
