Page 20 of Iris' Lying Eyes
I consider my options but decide to go for it. It’s no surprise. Why shouldn’t this fucker know the end game?
“I want John,” I rasp, and Bastion’s brows drop over his eyes.
“For what?”
Smiling wretchedly, I murmur, “Whatever the fuck I want.”
Bastion searches my gaze with a frown before saying, “Fine. When I say.”
Nodding, I turn away and stare out the window once more.
“You do what I want, when I want,” Bastion says, and I laugh.
“Something funny?”
“No,” I say. “I’ve just heard that before.”
The temperature in the vehicle drops ten degrees, and I close my eyes, wishing for things that are impossible. When I open them, I meet Bastion’s black stare in the window’s reflection and smile.
It’s nothing more than a baring of my teeth, but he receives the message as intended, looking away.
Part of me already regrets this exchange because there’s no fucking way I can remain under B’s roof.
A Bruno? He might as well have said he’s the devil himself. I have to fly far and fast before the shit heading my way catches up with me.
Besides, I just made a deal with the only fucker who’s ever gotten under my skin, and I know I’ll regret it if I stay. As long as he never learns the fuck ton of secrets I’ve been hiding away, this shouldn’t be an issue. Maybe.
Chapter Six
I’m dismissed almost immediately when we reach his home, a monstrosity that rivals Jig’s in size. Inside, it’s almost stark in comparison.
This, more than anything, solidifies Bastion’s statement about being a Bruno, and my heart drops to my knees.
How did he end up here? How did I not know he’s a Bruno? He’s always been Bastion Smith to me.
I guess Bastion either doesn’t care or hasn’t had time to focus on decorating. A shame because you can tell this was once a beautiful place that probably entertained many an old mafia family once upon a time.
A young woman, no older than me, with bright eyes and big tits, escorts me up the stairs. She glances at me furtively from the corner of her eye, her brows rising when she lands on the full sleeve of tattoos covering my arm.
I guess I don’t pass muster, and I’m willing to bet she’s wondering if I’m the competition. The notion sets my teeth on edge, but I ignore it.
I’m not here to be Bastion’s plaything, ironic since I’ve been John’s for years.
In any case, I don’t care what she thinks of my new tattoos. She’d probably get the vapors if I showed her what they’re covering—a lifetime of drug abuse that stained my skin with ugly scars.
I can’t escape my past, but I can redefine how I feel about it, and the ink paints a story only I truly understand.
“Here,” she says brusquely, and I raise a brow.
This bitch doesn’t know who she’s messing with, but I bite my tongue because there will be plenty of time to put her in place if I need to.
The room is spacious, with a four-poster bed that dominates the far wall. Beyond is a small seating area adjacent to a picture window with a view of the property.
Except it’s a mass of tangled bushes, weeds, and grass as tall as my hips.
There’s no other furniture in the room, not even a dresser, and once again, I wonder where the previous stuff went.
Nodding, I step past the little siren and run my hand over the silky black comforter. Is this Bastion’s room?