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“Carven,” I called as I followed him inside.
He didn’t hear me, his focus directed at the red leather target that hung suspended from the ceiling.
Smack.
Smack.
SMACK!
The bag bounced and trembled. His head was down, fists ruthless as they landed time after time. He didn’t want to talk to me. He didn’t even want to acknowledge I even existed at that moment. All he wanted to do was take out his rage and frustration on the goddamn punching bag.
Thud…thud…THUD. The last punch bounced the bag so high the chain that tethered it to the ceiling rattled. I turned away and glanced at the door across the hall. Colt’s room. I stepped closer, drawn by my own fucking torment.
I swallowed more than breathed. The cloying scent of blood clung to my nostrils. It was that smell that came back to me as I turned the handle of his door and pushed it open. I didn’t want to smell that place…not here.
I wanted to breathe in some trace of him, to sink into the feel of his touch and the warmth of his body. I wanted him, any way I could get him.
Shadows crowded his room as I stepped inside. I stopped at the foot of his bed, remembering that first night when the storm overhead had boomed and I’d woken up screaming.
He was there, sitting against the wall of my bedroom, fighting his own demons from our past. Yet he’d pushed that beast aside…for me.
I sank down on his bed and rested my head on his pillow. The trace of him was faint here. Because he spent most of his nights with me. A sob tore from my chest. He spent most of his nights with me.
“Where are you, Colt?” I cried, burying my face in his bedding.
I fisted his comforter as the image of that severed thumb slammed into me. I shuddered violently, my own rage howling inside me. All I could do was scream, muffling the sound of my torment. I beat the bedding, driving my anger into the downy softness over and over again until my tears stained the fabric and I couldn’t feel anymore.
I was empty.
And numb.
I knew I couldn’t stay here.
I shoved upwards and stared at the rumpled bedding. It was too real, too raw and too goddamn lonely. That’s all I felt as I hurried from the room, the tears in my eyes blurring the way, and barged through my bedroom door. It hit the wall with a bang as I ran for the bathroom.
Rage filled me.
The kind of rage I’d felt before.
I flicked on the lights and all but lunged for the vanity, grabbing hold of the corners. No! NO! Screams sounded in my head. My own screams as I’d stood in that room at The Order, and those of the man I’d killed with my own hands.
I’d killed.
I lifted my gaze to the mirror.
I’d killed like it was nothing.
“Not nothing,” I whispered, not even sure who I was speaking to anymore. “It’s called retribution.”
Retribution. That’s what I felt like and it wasn’t just for Colt now. It was for all the Daughters, all those women they’d forced down into that room. I shook my head.
Head up, Vivienne. Look them in the eye and never give them a reason to think you’re weak.
London had always made me look strong, always made me be on guard, a force to be reckoned with. Now I was. I shoved away from the vanity and swiped my tears away.
I pulled my holster free, then Carven’s black turtleneck shirt I wore for camouflage, hurrying to strip off the rest before I stepped into the shower. I needed the stench of tonight off me…desperately.
Hot water scalded my skin, turning me red. I scrubbed furiously, then stepped out. But I still felt just as dirty as I had when I’d stepped in. There wasn’t enough water to scrub murder from my soul. Not anymore.
