Page 45 of Ruthless Redemption
“Fucking salad,” Bishop mutters pushing from his chair.
She returns outside, using her foot to slide the door closed behind her. This time her tray is filled with dinner bowls and sparkling glasses already filled with white wine, along with the remainder of the opened bottle.
I approach as she places one of the salad concoctions at the head of the table. “This is mine.” She puts another down to her left. “And yours, Bishop.” She shoots me a cursory glance while putting my bowl to her right. “And yours…”
Our gazes barely meet, but there’s something different in her eyes. Something that causes tension beneath my sternum.
“And the wine?” Bishop’s tone holds blatant skepticism. “Are those already designated?”
She reaches for the lone glass in the corner of the tray. “This one is.”
He clears his throat and glowers at me, sending a message that’s far from silent.
Specified meals. Stipulated drinks.
If she’s striving to drug us, it’s far too blatant. But am I careless enough to throw caution to the wind in a vain attempt to show my trust? Maybe.
I take my seat.
Layla does the same.
Bishop continues to glower.
If she wants us dead, I can’t fulfil my obligation to kill Emmanuel. But we discussed my commitment before our last fight. Before the sex and violence and blood.
We fall mute. Nobody eats. Nobody drinks.
The meal becomes a game of chicken. A standoff. I don’t want to risk being incapacitated if her intention is to run.
“Fine.” She scoffs. “You don’t trust me?” She grabs her fork and leans toward me, stealing a piece of chicken from the top of my meal to stick it in her mouth. “Satisfied?” She speaks as she chews, then does the same with Bishop’s dinner. “That’s why you’re both not eating, right?”
He nudges his glass of wine toward her. “This, too, kink queen.”
She stiffens slightly. “I want Emmanuel dead.” She grabs Bishop’s glass and takes a sip, immediately following with mine. “And I know I can’t do it on my own. What would be the point in spiking your food?”
“You forget that I walked in on your demonic sex ritual,” Bishop drawls. “At this point, I think you’d poison me for shits and giggles.”
I barely acknowledge their conversation, my interest no longer on the food or wine.
My instincts are tuned in to her. Searching. Scavenging for clues.
She’s different. There’s no fight in her eyes. No frustration in her posture.
All I see is resignation.
“I’ll take care of Emmanuel, Layla.” I grab my fork and dig into my meal, the taste of oyster sauce and soy coating my tongue. “Consider it handled.”
“That’s not what I want.” She places my wine down in front of me. “I need his blood onmyhands. I want to be the one who ends his life.”
Icy dread skitters down my spine, my hand itching to reach for the relief that would come from palming the blade in my pocket. “It’s too dangerous.”
“I’m not asking for permission. I need to do this for myself. For Stella. I won’t risk being fooled by your promises again.” Her words lack hostility. It’s an admission of humiliation, not a taunt.
“In that case, the plan will take longer to organize.” I stab a piece of chicken. “I’ll want a million contingencies in place for your safety before we step foot in Colorado.”
“I don’t need a million. You should consider this like any other assassination. I’m sure you know how to be efficient but cautious. No strategy will be foolproof.”
But this isn’t any other assassination. This is abouther.
