Page 91 of Seductive Sadist
“You sure know how to make a girl blush.” I drop down in front of him and drag my fingertips down the side of his face. “I love you, too. And you’re not the only one who’s been miserable.”
“Then tell me you’ll marry me. Let’s stop being miserable and finally be happy.”
“I want that more than anything.”
“Yeah? So what do you say? You wanna do this? Be my wife?”
I nod, a smile stretching across my lips. “But I can’t let you cut off your family. They’re part of you, and I need to come to terms with that.”
“But you’re my priority. I choose you, forever. Screw everything else.”
“Nik and Luka are going to be okay with that?”
He shrugs. “Fuck ’em if they aren’t. I don’t care as long as I have you. I’ll take care of you.” He waggles his eyebrows. “In every way I can think of.”
I giggle and graze my lips with his. “Well, then. How could I possibly say no tothat?”
Epilogue
VALENTINA
“Daddy, I tried… to find her…” My breaths come in short, sharp rasps, sobs shuddering my chest. “But I couldn’t… I couldn’t get to her in time before she… before she…”
I collapse into my father’s arms. He strokes the back of my tangled hair. “You did what you could, ??????.”
How can his voice sound so soothing when the vein in his neck throbs like it’s about to burst?
“I should have gone after her. Helped her get away from them. But my legs were like Jell-O. I couldn’t even move.” I squeeze my eyes shut. “And then she was gone. It was too late.”
“Not for you.” Dad pulls away and places both hands on either side of face. “You got away. You’re safe.”
I swipe at the tears that stream down my cheeks. “I was so scared. What if they’d gotten me, too?”
“They will never get close to you again.” His blue eyes darken with rage. “I’ll make sure of that, if I have to torch the fucking Earth to do it.”
I grit my teeth and step out of my rental car. Vegas dry heat, my ass. I’m still sweating like a whore in church.
It’s been seven years. I’m still hunting the man who wreaked havoc and hell on my family and so many others. I grasp the door handle to El Mariachi, a dingy Mexican restaurant in East Las Vegas. My stomach roils at the pungent smells of spices and herbs deep fried with beef and beans. Dark-brown ceiling fans spin lazily above my head, whisking the stench of grease around the room.
There are a few tables scattered around the restaurant. Looking around, it’s pretty clear that the word “restaurant” is really overstating this place.
Patrons are bent over their plates of food. They stare at me and talk quietly, as if they know something I don’t.
But I already know everything.
That’s why I’m here.
I step toward a thin wooden easel, which I guess is supposed to be the hostess podium. An eerie quiet settles over the place, and a shiver slithers down my spine when my eyes meet the young girl’s terrified, sunken ones. Her stringy hair doesn’t look like it’s been combed for days, and her clothes are spotted with dark stains.
Anger bubbles in my chest. Even though I’ve walked into plenty of places just like this over the past few years, it never ceases to make me physically ill.
Because it could have been me standing at that cracked wooden stand.IfI was lucky, unlike Charly.
I clench and unclench my fingers, my gaze sweeping over the cracked linoleum tile floor toward a set of double red doors that lead to the basement of the restaurant.
The others have to be close.
My instructions were clear.