Page 24 of Freedom’s Inferno

I was ready to yank the valet out of the driver’s seat by the time the Lexus finally rolled up. Lana slid in beside me, her breath still sharp, her hand white-knuckled around her clutch. I didn’t bother buckling in. The tires squealed against the pavement as I shoved us into the night.

We didn’t speak the first few miles. My heart was still hammering, the image of Costa’s muscled enforcer burned into my mind. His eyes, cold and calculating, and that hand dipping into his jacket, a matter of when, not if.

By the time we turned onto her street, my pulse had started to ease, but the weight in my chest hadn’t. I pulled into her driveway, killed the engine, and sat there a moment, the night pressing in.

We stepped out of the car, both of us scanning the shadows like ghosts might leap from them. The house loomed ahead, silent and still, but my skin prickled as though the enforcers had followed us all the way here. Inside, there’d be no rest. Not with the memory of his stare, not with the photographs Lana had taken burning a hole in her phone, and not with Costa’s shadow closing in.

As soon as we walked into the foyer and locked the door behind us, Lana whirled on me, her heels clattering against the hardwood. “What the hell was that?” she hissed, her voice sharp enough to cut.

I clenched my jaw. “That was me keeping us alive.”

“Alive?” She laughed, brittle and furious. “You kissed me in front of Mary Byres like some horny teenager, then you nearly got us killed walking straight into their line of sight.”

I stepped closer, my voice dropping low. “If I hadn’t acted fast, Mary would have caught us snooping in her husband’s office. If I hadn’t pushed us through that ballroom, Costa’s thugs would have had us in a corner with no way out. You think you could’ve sweet-talked your way out of that?”

Her chin lifted, blue eyes blazing. “Better than blundering us into it in the first place. You storm through everything like a battering ram and expect the pieces to magically fall into place.”

I laughed, bitter. “And you? You think fluttering your lashes and playing clever will keep you alive when men like Costa want your head on a platter?”

The air between us vibrated with anger, but underneath was something hotter, heavier. Something neither of us wanted to address.

She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut, spinning on her heel.

I let her stalk a few paces toward the stairs, dragging my hand down my face. My mouth still tingled from that kiss, and it infuriated me more than anything she’d said.

Who broke your heart? She had no idea.

My restraint cracked, and I lashed out before I could stop myself, catching her wrist and yanking her back to face me.

Her body locked, her eyes flaring.

I leaned in and my voice simmered. “You want everyone to believe you don’t want to be handled,” I said, my grip tightening enough to make her pulse jump beneath my fingers. “But that’s not the truth, is it? What you’re really looking for is a man who can.”

Her lips parted, breathless. “You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

My mouth curved into a sneer. “Do you need to be handled, Lana? Because I can handle you.”

For a second, I thought she might slap me, but the grandfather clock erupted with heavy chimes and the venom in her eyes shifted into something closer to fear.

I released her wrist on instinct, and she drew back like I’d scorched her.

Dong. Dong. Dong.

The heavy tone reverberated through the foyer, counting out the hour. Each resonant tone carried Lana further away as she disappeared inside herself.

A stone sank in my stomach. “Lana, I‒”

She shook her head, as if clearing away the fog, her vacant stare replaced with something darker. “Don’t. Touch me.” she seethed, before turning and sprinting up the stairs as fast as her heels could carry her.

I stayed frozen at the bottom of the stairs long after she disappeared down the hall. The silence she left behind sat heavier than the argument itself. I didn’t understand what the hell had just happened, what I’d done, or what I’d stepped on inside her that sent her crumbling like that.

She’d looked hollow. Empty. Like I’d knocked the life right out of her.

The image clung to me, refusing to shake loose. I combed a hand through my hair, pacing a short line across the hardwood.

Christ, what the hell is wrong with me?

I’d pushed her too far, let my temper and the chaos between us bleed into something rougher than I meant. That wasn’t me. I wasn’t the kind of man who used his size or his anger to make a point. But something about Lana—her fire, her defiance, the way she never stayed cowed for long—it lit a fuse I didn’t know I had.