“Better watch it, buddy,” Constantine whispered from behind him. “I could be wrong. It could beyourheart that gets broken.”
“Impossible.” He sent Constantine a bitter smile. “Ask any of my enemies, I don’t have a heart.” If you didn’t have one, there was no way it could ever break.
Chapter Eleven
Home, sweet home. Or rather,bookstore, sweet bookstore.Jacqueline and Remy had reached her pride and joy—the sweet little bookshop that was all hers, and the first thing she noticed was that the front door wasn’t locked.
It should have been locked. The building should have been sealed up tightly. The bookstore was on the first floor, and her apartment was above it. Her space. Her place.
But the front door was ajar.
Jacqueline pushed the door open a bit more, heard the little bell overhead give its happy jingle, but then she froze in her tracks.
Destruction.
Her shelves had all been knocked over. Dozens and dozens of books littered the floor. The pictures and lights she’d painstakingly hung had all been ripped down. Smashed. Broken shards of glass and pottery littered the floor.
Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t even speak. This had beenhers.She’d renovated the space herself. Painted the walls. Installed the counters. Reupholstered the chairs that she’d installed in the reading nook. It had taken her months to get everything organized and now…
Now garish red spray paint covered the once cheerful light blue walls. Her place had been destroyed.
“He’s a dead man,” Remy snarled, voice coming from behind her. “Count on it.”
She whirled toward him even as she swiped at her cheeks. She couldn’t cry now. They’d flown on a private jet to New Orleans and arrived just as the sun rose. On the trip, she’d barely managed thirty minutes of sleep. Jacqueline was pretty sure fumes were keeping her going. Fumes and now fury because she knew exactly who had destroyed her store.
Preston.
But Remy had to be careful, he couldn’t just growl out that he wanted to kill someone. “You know you don’t mean those words. You’re mad. I’m mad. I get it.”
“Mad?” Remy’s brows rose even as he slid past her and into her bookstore. He turned around slowly, seeming to take in everything. “Mad isn’t how I feel.”
Constantine wasn’t with them. He’d vanished after disembarking the plane, though Jacqueline was sure he’d be turning up again soon. An SUV, a rental, had been waiting for her and Remy.
“Ismadhow you feel?” he pushed. “Because I’m more enraged. More like flooded with killing fury. This shit…” He waved to indicate the chaos around them. “This was done to hurt you. He wanted to destroy something you cared about.” A hard shake of his head. “No one gets away with that.”
She knew Prestonhadordered her place wrecked to hurt her. He’d probably searched the bookstore for her first, and when she hadn’t been there, he’d let his goons loose to tear the place apart. “We’ll send him to jail. I know you’re not actually intending to kill him.” Not like Remy would kill a man for her. Not like she wanted him to do that.
He sent her a small smile. One that didn’t reach his eyes or make his face appear any softer. “How certain are you of that?”
“I—”
But he’d turned away. “You have an apartment upstairs, yes?”
Yes, she’d mentioned her place to him on the plane ride. Nothing fancy, but her home was cozy and had a great view of the city below. Located on Magazine Street, she’d fallen in love with the old building the moment she’d seen it. She’d scraped and saved and poured her soul into the business.
Now…
“I’ll fix things,” she said, setting her shoulders. “Messes can be cleaned up. Walls can be repainted. Books can be…” Some were ripped apart. Her chest burned. “I can fix it.” Shewould.
He’d paused near the door at the rear of the shop. The door that opened to a staircase that led to the second level. “You always this positive?”
“No, I’m just trying to hold myself together so I don’t break down in front of you. I don’t want you thinking I’m weak.”
At her reply, he jerked a little. As if she’d surprised him. “Don’t think I’d ever consider you weak.”
If she collapsed into a sobbing mass on the floor, he might.Do not collapse. Do not.She pulled in a breath. Let it out. Pulled in another. “Maybe they didn’t touch my apartment upstairs.” She hurried past him. She kept a spare key to her apartment hidden in the base of a flowerpot upstairs, right near the door.
As soon as she reached the second level, Jacqueline saw that the pot had been smashed. There was no sign of the key, and her apartment door hung open. She swallowed, twice, and nudged the door open a little bit more.