Heart of the Devil (The Forge Trilogy #3)(24)

When the knob turns, I scuttle away from the door, sliding my butt across the tile floor until I ram into the couch.

Who the fuck is coming to my—

The door swings open, and we both scream. Me and Summer.

“What the fuck are you doing here! You scared the hell out of me!” she squeals.

My lungs heave in oxygen and my heart races like I stepped on a live wire. “What the hell are you doing breaking into my apartment?” I ask, my voice coming out in a rasp.

“I have a key! You told me I could stay here whenever I needed.”

I blink at her, which apparently is becoming a habit of mine when people say things to me I don’t know how to react to. “When did I say that?”

My sister shrugs. Except . . . she’s not really my sister. The fact hits me like a slap to the face. Shivering, I huddle on the floor as tears flood my eyes again.

“Oh my God, Indy. What’s wrong?” Horror flashes across Summer’s delicate features, and she drops her bag and slides across the tile to kneel in front of me. “What happened? Who do I need to kill?”

Through my tears, I manage a brittle laugh, but it’s muffled as Summer wraps her arms around me.

“You’re scaring me, Indy. Please say something.”

I snuffle, sounding like the mess I am, and sob into her shoulder. “It’s over. My marriage is over.”

“Oh shit,” she whispers. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, Indy.”

And instead of asking me the hundred questions that must be on her mind, Summer squeezes me tighter. Together, we rock on the floor until I have no more tears.





21





Forge





“Sir, I need to speak with you.”

Dorsey’s voice comes through my office door after she’s knocked three times and I haven’t answered.

“Not now,” I bite out.

“Sir, with all due respect, I don’t care if you don’t want to speak to me right now. I need to speak to you.”

The door opens, and I grit my teeth. I’m not fit for human interaction right now, and I tried to warn her, but apparently Dorsey is willing to risk her job to say whatever she has on her mind.

“Talk, and then get out.”

I don’t need to look at her face to see the shock as she surveys my destroyed office. She gapes at the bloody smear on the wall.

My busted knuckles ooze blood and burn every time I flex my hands, but I deserve more than this pain. Because I’m a piece of shit, and even with all the fucking money in the world, I’ll never be worth a damn.

And I never fucking learn.

“Jesus Christ,” Dorsey whispers.

“If that’s all you have to say, get the fuck out.” I hit Send on an email, because what the fuck else do I have to do but work and get my revenge. That’s all I’ll ever have.

And I can’t even fucking find de Vere. My sources on Ibiza could give me nothing. He’s gone to ground, and no one has seen him in days. But I will find him.

The petition for divorce sits on my desk, and I wish I could tear it to shreds. But Indy deserves her freedom, and so I’ll give it to her. She’ll take the goddamned money too. I don’t give a fuck if she wants it or not.

“Your hand, sir. Let me get the first aid kit.”

“No.”

Dorsey takes another hesitant step forward, like I’m a wounded beast instead of a man.

But maybe she’s right. I’m not a fucking man. I don’t even merit the description. I couldn’t protect my woman when I needed to. I left her at the mercy of anyone. Her father had to come protect her.

“I take it . . . Mrs. Forge isn’t coming back?”

I grunt in response.

“She asked if I could . . .” Dorsey pauses, probably to stare at the rest of the destroyed room.

“What?” I bark out, clenching my busted hands into fists.

“If I could pack up her things and return them to her.”

Another agonizing stab of pain jams into me. “Do it. Do it right now. Get it all out of here.”

“Yes, sir.” Dorsey takes a few steps backward, as if afraid to let me out of her sight as she leaves. Like I might take a swipe at her. “Is there anything you need before I go, Mr. Forge?”

I finally lift my gaze to the shattered bottles of liquor that used to be on the sideboard in my office.

“A bottle of whiskey. The cheapest shit you can find. Tell everyone I’m not to be disturbed.”

An expression of pity curves her lips into a frown, but I don’t fucking want anyone’s pity. I don’t want anything but to get so fucking drunk I can’t remember my own name.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree . . .

“Yes, sir. Right away.”

She backs out of the doorway, but before she can close it, I bark out, “Wait.”

“Yes?”

“Tell her if she tries to return the money, I’ll make a bonfire out of it.”

“Yes, sir,” Dorsey whispers as she shuts the door and leaves me to wallow in my own fucking misery.

Which is compounded when my phone buzzes. I don’t want to look at it. Don’t want to touch it. But I can’t help it. It’s Federov’s number.