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His things were right there. Mementos that were once important to Ash.
Trinkets that someone had kept for him. Was it Rosa? Did she have enough heart to keep them?
No. No, she’d killed him.
She’d murdered him. Ripped his life away from him.
That bitch didn’t have a heart.
I shook off Ezra’s arms and glanced at Ash’s Gold Coast jersey laid out on the bed—the one we’d worn to the inaugural home game. I remembered the day we got them. I had one exactly the same.
That motherfucking bitch. I was glad she was dead. I was happy we’d left her house burning around her, the ill-gotten spoils of her theft and deceit crumbling around her as her body burned.
I tore out of there, anger as visceral as lava erupting from a volcano pouring from me. But there was nowhere to go.
The French door bounced off the wall as I shoved it open and started pacing the deck.
I kicked the sun lounger, sending it skidding across the timber platform.
But the rage still burned inside me.
I bent to pick up the coffee table, but my fucking arm stopped me from even moving it. Frustration, wrath, helplessness, and grief piled on top of each other, the combination like a nuclear bomb going off inside of me.
I roared.
My vision went red.
Blood thrashed through my veins, pounding so hard, I could hear the rushing in my ears.
I kicked the sun lounger again, toppling it. Fucking railing. I wanted to hurl the bastard over it, but I couldn’t even lift it with my fucking arm in a sling.
The noise that erupted from deep inside me didn’t sound human. I didn’t feel human.
Then he was there. Tristan.
Standing in front of me, the tears still wet on his lashes, he blocked my path.
My good hand went to my hair, and I yanked, needing to feel something other than the turmoil overwhelming me. The sting helped. Or maybe it didn’t. I didn’t know.
“Come back to me, Ry,” Tristan rasped.
I shook my head, incapable of forming any words.
“Take it out on me. I can handle it. Hit me, kick me, fuck me, whatever you need. Take it,” he demanded, his voice rising to a shout. But he had no idea what he was asking for.
I wanted to inflict pain.
I wanted to excise this murderous rage boiling in my veins.
I wanted to punish her, tear her limb from limb.
I wanted to watch the life drain from her miserable eyes as she bled out.
If only I was the one who’d fired that bullet.
Tristan stepped forward, cupping my face with his rough hands. He dug his fingers into my jaw and stared at me, his own jaw clenched hard. His emerald eyes were stormy, a mix of agony and a fierce rage swirling in their depths.
He yanked me toward him, slamming his mouth against mine. I tried to tear away from him, but his grip was too strong.
