Wretched (Never After Series)(41)

“Only before they’re dead.” She grins wide.

I roll my eyes, my stomach churning from her nonchalance. “What is this place?” I look around.

She drops her gun but stays in my hold. “My escape.”

“From?”

She shrugs. “Life.”

“You don’t like your life?” I’m not sure why I ask, but I’m suddenly desperate to know.

Her tongue swipes across her bottom lip, and she tilts her head. “You don’t ever want to just… get away?”

“Not particularly.”

She sighs. “Well, I do. I’d leave forever if I could.”

My interest is piqued. “Where would you go?”

“Ireland.” She doesn’t hesitate for a second. “My dad prides himself on our Irish heritage, but I’ve never even been there, can you believe that?”

I don’t respond because I’m not sure what to say. Instead, I soak in how effortlessly beautiful she is. But her beauty is a mirage, a trick of the light. It sucks you in and gives you comfort, only to turn ugly when you peer beneath the surface.

“Why do you lie so much?” she asks.

“I don’t lie.” I grit my teeth.

Technically, I do, but it’s irritating to have her constantly call me on it, when I’ve been more honest with her than anyone else. I expect her to have a smart comeback but she only watches me. Peers at me like she’s trying to sink under my skin and dig up the buried parts. It makes me itch, and I fidget, my fingers pressing in tightly on her waist. “Is this still about the name thing?”

“You tell me.”

Smirking, I swallow around the tightness in my throat and bend down to whisper in her ear, “Sweetheart, you can call me anything you want if it means I get to sink into that sweet pussy again.”

She jerks back, ripping herself out of my grasp. “Ugh, you’re a disgrace to men everywhere.”

I laugh. “Says the girl who just killed two people.”

She opens her mouth like she has something else to say, but she turns to walk into the small kitchen instead. I follow her, crowding where she’s facing the counter with her head bowed, her fingers pressing tightly against the edge. Caging her in, I move down until my nose skims against her neck.

“It bothers you, doesn’t it?” I ask. “What you did?”

“Brayden, please. Go fuck yourself,” she murmurs.

I couldn’t tell you why I do it. Maybe it’s because I’m trying like hell to find the girl inside the monster; the one she’s trying so desperately to hide. Or maybe it’s because I’m desperate to hear a reason, just a single fucking reason why I shouldn’t report her, even though I know it’s what I’ll have to do.

My stomach churns and I clench my jaw. I slide my palms down the length of her arms, my cock filling as goose bumps prickle along her skin and her ass presses into my groin. Our fingers intertwine on the Formica counter, and my heart slams against my ribs when her body trembles.

“You can tell me,” I rumble against her neck, my tongue slipping out to taste her, just a little bit.

In this moment, I mean it. She can tell me. I’m not trying to garner information, or see what she’ll say. I’m not interested in her bratty mouth or all the ways I can make her squirm. I just want to talk to the girl beneath the mask. The one who smiles so big it softens her eyes, and lets me whisper sonnets against her skin.

Her breathing is heavy. “I’m not upset that I killed them.”

Disappointment settles in my chest like a boulder, but it feels muted and dull, overshadowed by the fire that lights up my insides whenever I’m so much as within a foot of this woman.

“I’m mad that I lost control,” she continues.

My grip on her hands tighten, and I know—I know—that I should pull away. That after this is over, I’ll spend hours hating myself for falling for someone I’m supposed to stand against.

But when it comes to Eveline Westerly, I’m a fucking fool.

So, instead of leaving and reporting in to Seth, I move our interlaced arms and wrap them around her middle, before removing my fingers, dragging them down the front of her body as I sink to my knees.

“Then take it back.”





21





EVELINE





I knew he was following me.

And I know he’s lying about more than he lets on. So do I trust him? Absolutely not.

But I wasn’t lying when I said I’m upset I lost control. After Nessa’s death, I’ve worked incredibly hard on maintaining my temper—on making sure my impulse issue is under lock and key. I never mastered it while she was alive and doing so in death is one of the ways I’ve tried to honor her memory.

Lately, it’s been severely lacking, which makes me feel as though I’m disrespecting her. Disappointing her, the way I do everyone else.

But then there’s him.

This man. This complete stranger. And he’s on his knees for me.

I’m under no illusion that him giving up control is easy. The entire reason we’re at each other’s throats is because there’s a constant struggle of me trying to keep it while he takes it away. But there’s something there, in between the vitriol and the animosity. A silver lining that’s warm and soft around the edges, urging me to sink into what he’s giving.