Page 90 of Filthy Little Regrets
“It was self-defense, right?” Mace asks.
“Absolutely,” Melody and Adalie say at the same time.
“Then it sounds like Bethany is fucked either way.” Mace’s lip curls in disgust as he looks at her. “For the record, neither of you ever had a chance.” His gaze lifts to meet mine. “She’s always been the one.”
Pulse fluttering, I press my eyebrows together.You don’t have to lay it on so thick.
He smiles at me, as if he can read my mind. “Well?” he asks, pointedly looking at the woman I still hold hostage.
I peer at her tear-streaked face. Maybe I should let her go.
“Get your trailer trash hands off of me,” she hisses under her breath.
You know what? Fuck her. I tighten my grip, tugging hard until I hear a crispsnap.Her mouth drops open and her face grows pale. It takes a full ten seconds for the shock to wear off and for the scream to cut through the air.
Mace chuckles. “Well, fuck. I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”
Releasing Bethany, I take a step away as she falls to the ground in a heap, shaking my head. “Am I going to jail?”
“No.” He’s so confident about that, but they probably own the police force.
“She broke my wrist! Oh my god,” Bethany wails.
Ellen takes a big step back, eyes wide as saucers.
“Ellen! Help me!” But her “friend” dashes away, saving her own ass. Bethany sobs, clutching her arm and begging for help. It’s kind of pathetic.
Mace is suddenly there, towering over me.
I turn and tip my head back to hold his dark gaze.
“You’re trouble, baby.”
“She deserved it,” I mutter.
“Mmm.” He grips my chin and smooths his lips over mine, flicking his tongue over my bottom lip. “Don’t think you’re getting away with leaving the house without telling me where you were going.” He pulls back with a regretful exhale. “But first, I need to do damage control. You guys should go,” he tells his sisters, eyeing me. “I’ll take my wife home.”
twenty-five
MACE
After ensuring everyone at the tennis club remembers that the Astors don’t let anyone fuck with them—and that I have dirt on every single one of them—I drove my wife home. She hops out of the car as soon as I park, scurrying to the door like she can escape her punishment.
I climb out, shut the car door, and easily close the distance between us in six strides.
She scowls at me. “I hate tall people.”
“You’re running.”
Slowing her pace, she sends me a haughty look. “I’m not.”
“What did I tell you about lying?” Pushing through the door, she makes her way toward the stairs, but I catch her by the waist and haul her back against my chest, wrapping my hand around her throat and fluttering pulse. “Where do you think you’re going?”
She swallows, throat bobbing against my palm. “To shower.”
“Without me?”
“Don’t think that because we fucked in one bathroom, we’ll fuck in another.”
