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Bianca’s worried, yes, but she has resilience right now. A hardness. Looking at her, I see a woman who's been through more than her fair share and is so fucking tired. That vulnerable edge, that touch of weakness I saw in her weeks ago, is nowhere to be found.
Have I broken her?
Have I lost the woman I love before I’ve even had the chance to confess it to her?
Uneasiness coats my insides. I need her softness. I need her vulnerability. It's my life's blood, and it's nowhere to be found. What's happened to her? I can feel the change even in the days since I last saw her.
“I've got some questions,” she redirects before guzzling back the rest of her drink and placing the glass on the desk. She doesn’t let go of it, though. Choosing instead to spin it, staring at the prisms of light thrown off by the ornate engravings. “And I think you hold some of the answers I need.”
“You know me, I'm nothing if not helpful.”
She pins me with a stony stare. “I told you, this isn't a game.”
“Who said it was? You’re the one who found your way into my home, barged into my office, and made yourself comfortable. By all rights, I should have you removed.”
Where did she park? How did she get inside without me noticing? There are so many questions to which I get the feeling I won't get answers. That's not what she's here to discuss.
“But you won't, will you?” The coldness seeping from her hits me like a wave of ice. This is all wrong. This isn't the Bianca I know, the Bianca I desire.
“Try me. You go from telling me nothing between us is real, that it’s only sex. Fast-forward to you showing up, and suddenly you want to talk.” I watch her as I sip my whiskey, which may as well be water since I can't taste it. Every fiber of my awareness is trained on her—her reaction, that unnerving sense of calm hanging over her.
It’s the calm before the storm. A beautiful fucking storm that I will gladly let rip me apart.
The glass goes still, her delicate hand clenched tightly around it. “I didn’t come here to talk about any of those things, and certainly not us. I will ask you something, and all I want is the truth. After everything we’ve been through, I deserve that much.”
“Okay, what do you want to know?”
She hesitates, then licks her lips before bracing herself. “Did you kill my mother?”
Goddamn him. Of course, he fucking told her. That sick, pathetic son of a bitch. Bringing his daughter into this, twisting her up in his web of lies. I have to keep my expression neutral, because the other option is to let the mask slip free and show my real feelings, which won’t get me anywhere. The absolute truth hangs on the edge of my tongue. I want to spill the beans about the way he showed up here, drunk and raving, accusing me of shit.
How unstable he is and how he can’t be trusted. I want to tell her he has no idea what he's talking about and that he's lost his damn mind. As much as I want to shake her out of whatever grasp he has on her, I can't bring myself to do it. I cannot be the one to bring her that intense pain. It’s better if she hates me and thinks I’m the villain who took her mom away.
“You'll have to be more specific,” I mutter, lifting a shoulder. “You know I've got plenty of notches on my belt. The faces all tend to blur into each other. You know, you kill one, you’ve killed them all.”
“You son of a bitch.” I duck in the nick of time as she sends the glass sailing across the room. It lands somewhere over my head, smashing against the wall at my back. Pieces of glass fly in every direction.“What is wrong with you? Why would you say something like that? I should fucking kill you! Hell, I wish I could!”
Yes. This is how I need her. Emotional, burning with rage, ready to break.
Hot, blazing satisfaction burns through my veins while I launch myself across the room, taking her by the arms even as she tries to throw punches. I pull her from the chair and drop her ass onto the desk. “You wanna kill me?” I snarl, so close our noses touch. “You only wish you had the balls to get rid of me that easily.”
She snarls at me, her teeth clenched. “Yes! Yes, I do! I fucking hate you!”
“Then, by all means, little bird.” Reaching behind me, I take hold of the Glock, pulling it from my waistband and placing it on the desk. “Do it.”
Her eyelids flutter, her already flushed cheeks turning a darker shade of red. “What?”
