He strolls down a lengthy corridor and to another hallway.
Yes, I have a crucial assignment ahead of me. One that may very well end with my demise. Yet, I’ll not leave this earth without taking this stranger’s soul.
All of a sudden, the man stops at a door. Upon entering, he turns on the lights, indicating I may have time to question him before he dies.
Just as the stranger’s closing the door behind him, I jam my fist into his mouth. He falters, touching the crimson stream while I discreetly close the door.
“You are so bloody dead,” I grit out the whisper, tossing another hook.
The Arab catches my hand, twisting my arm back. I work with his efforts, spinning out of his clutches, and bull rush him against a wall.
A clay pot starts for the marbled flooring. The Arab kicks his foot out, which is surprising. His efforts save the damnable piece from crashing to the marble floor and drawing attention to us.
“That was intentional. You know who I am?” I growl, fist slamming into his jaw.
He spits blood. “I do. And I knew you’d come to vindicate the girl who only needed saving fromyou.”
“Ahh, I’m the bad guy?” After my enemy nods, I offer him a moment to collect himself.
The stranger assumes a fighting stance. Elbows lift at a precise angle, fists slowly shifting as he waits for my next strike. “She returned to you like a dog who returns to its vomit—”
“Oh, don’t you dare, mate,” I snarl, “insult my woman.”
The stranger blocks my fist, but I lift my knee at the last moment and wink. The punch was to catch him off guard. My attack crunches against his abdomen.
He doubles over coughing. In a labored tone, he retorts, “I-I blame you, Tudor. She was too innocent.”
“For the likes of me? Too innocent?” I grip his jet-black hair in my hands. This time, my knee juts upward, slaughtering the arsehole’s face.
I wipe the bit of blood from my nose, which trickles onto the white thawb. The man falls into a kneeling position, upper body wobbling about. “You’ve not censored yourself,” I tell him, shoving up the sleeves of my robe. “So, by all means, talk while I beat you to death. It’s your bloody choice.”
“You ruined her,” he says. “Treated her like an animal! And you don’t get to return to her.”
I grab the top of his cranium, pummeling his face in until I’ve grown tired.
The wanka laughs, displaying all of his crimson teeth. “Mr. Tudor, I’d rather kill everyone in the compound—”
“Is that so?” I give some distance between us as we both catch our breath—him from the abuse—me from the delight of toying with an unworthy victim.
“Yes, Tudor. I’d kill everyone, including me, rather than allow you to survive and return to Luxury.”
“Good for you, mate, but this lovely chin-wagging is over.” I reveal my silenced handgun.
Not a moment later, the bloke slips a detonator from the underside of his sleeve. “I’m Ahmad, by the way, and I helped save her. At least I’ll die and go to heaven knowing that I saved her from you—again.Rot in hell.”
21
Luxury
Two weeks later . . .
This morning, fog blankets the Atlantic. I still haven’t had the energy to walk to the shore. When I look out the window while dressing in a sweat suit, I determine that Vic and I’ll spend an entire day at the private beach behind our massive home. The second Victor returns, we’ll have our beach day.
I zip up the matching jacket and murmur, “No, we’re gonna go today. Even if it rains.”Because Vic has to come home today.
Hours later, I’m trimming the hedges at the garden's perimeter. The sun has hardly reared its head today, but every so often, it briefly breaks through the clouds. Beautiful rays softly touch my face as I change tactics from fixating on how Victor should be here soon.
I deadhead a rose from last season and mutter, “Even if he’s here right before the stroke of midnight, we’re going to the beach.”