Violence (Antihero Inferno Book 3)

by Lily White

  Which is, again, my fault.

  And I feel horrible about it.

  Sadly that just gives Dylan the chance to show his ass. He’s been aggressive toward the twins. Not physically, but in the crap he says. And while I know they’re both holding themselves back when he says anything, I’m not sure one of them won’t snap one day and knock Dylan around for it.

  Thankfully, Ezra has only been over once, and we spent the entire time arguing with each other about shit that doesn’t matter. I don’t know why he even tries anymore. He obviously will never let the past go.

  He’s supposed to come over tonight, and I’m not looking forward to it. His text was one bullshit line. See you in a few hours. That’s it.

  I typed out several responses, most of them telling him to keep his ass home or not to bother or calling him every name I could come up with in shouty caps and lots of middle finger emojis, but I erased them all because I really do need to talk to him about Damon.

  While waiting, I scroll through social media and feel jealous watching the videos Ivy has posted on her secret pages. She’s out there living the good life while I’m subjecting myself to what amounts to emotional and mental torture.

  Her latest post is captioned Catch Me If You Can, a photo of her boarding her father’s plane with a sweet smile on her face and her middle finger up. I laugh knowing it’s a nod to Gabriel, and wonder if he knows about these secret accounts.

  I also worry because, according to Ava, Gabe has been looking for Ivy but hasn’t yet succeeded in finding her. It’s not hard to imagine he’ll make her life hell if he ever manages to do so.

  Realizing I miss my bestie, I dial her number and wait the four rings it takes for her to answer.

  I don’t give her a chance to say a word before I ask, “How’s the fugitive life going?”

  “It’s great,” she answers, her voice chipper, yet relaxed and carefree. “I was just outside enjoying the beach, and tonight I’ll be partying it up at a club.”

  God, how I wish I could be her right now. Refusing to worry her, I try to disguise the distress in my voice. Somehow I know I fail miserably at the effort.

  “Must be fucking nice. Do me a favor, and post a video for me to see. I want to live vicariously through you for a while.”

  “I’ve already posted several. Plus, what do you have to bitch about? You’re living it up with two insanely gorgeous men you get to play with at the same time. If anybody needs to post a video, it’s you.”

  My eyes close at the comment. Ivy has no idea how what I’m assuming was a joke on her part has touched too close to home.

  Not only does it remind me of what I did in high school that led to the scar on my shoulder, it also puts me in a position where I have to lie to my best friend.

  I’ve always been a horrible liar. But lately, I’ve been doing it so much, I could compete with Gabriel for how much of a professional at it I’m becoming.

  Unable to summon the will to sound overjoyed about the twins being in my life, I tell a half truth, something that gives me a reason to sound disgruntled.

  “Actually, that’s more complicated than I’d like it to be. Damon got arrested a few weeks ago.”

  The perfect lie.

  Something that’s verifiable and gives me an excuse to sound as upset as I am.

  I’m just leaving out the subsequent torture of one twin who needs me even more now that he’s being harassed by his father, and the other one who is hellbent on destroying me.

  After a back and forth where I explain that Shane was arrested with Damon, and that Ezra wasn’t there for once, the doorbell rings through the house, which causes my stomach to shrivel into a painful ball.

  All I want to do is beg her to come home and rescue me. Instead, I play it off that I’m happy about the man who’s arrived.

  “That must be Ezra, which means I need to go. Have fun tonight, and be sure to send me footage.”

  We say our goodbyes as I get up to answer the door. Unfortunately, Dylan got there before me, his expression a pissed off sneer as he blocks Ezra’s path.

  He reminds me of a young puppy going up against an alpha, his little curled lip and not quite full-grown teeth no match for the bite Ezra is capable of delivering.

  “Dylan,” I warn, hoping he’ll move out of the way before Ezra moves him.

  My brother is almost as tall as Ezra, but he’s nowhere near as filled out. Plus, he hasn’t spent years fighting everything and everybody like Ezra has.

  Tense silence rolls between the two, Ezra’s cold stare locked on Dylan as if daring him to do something.

  “Dylan,” I warn again, my voice more urgent.

  “Fuck off, slut-“

  It’s all he gets out before Ezra has him pinned against a wall, Ezra’s forearm against Dylan’s throat and his expression calm and collected.

  The fact that Ezra doesn’t appear mad only angers Dylan more. He kicks out a few times, his hands gripping onto Ezra’s arm, his face turning a nasty shade of red.

  Ducking his head to be eye level with Dylan, a move he always uses with me, Ezra speaks so softly that I have to strain to hear him.

  “If I ever hear you speak to your sister like that again, I will leave you so fucking broken that you’ll be bedridden and in traction for months. I don’t give a damn who your daddy is or what your family will do to me. You deserve to be taught a lesson in respect just like your worthless, piece of shit friends.”

  Maybe it’s because of how calm his voice is, but my blood runs cold at Ezra’s words.

  Dylan must finally come to his senses as well. He stops struggling. Stops glaring. Can barely breathe because his face is turning a deep shade of purple.

  “Nod to tell me you understand me,” Ezra demands.

  With effort, Dylan nods.

  Ezra holds him in place for a few seconds longer before releasing Dylan and letting him fall to the floor. He doesn’t even bother looking down at the pile of my brother before walking forward to move past me and through the hall to my bedroom.

  A chill rolls down my spine as he passes me, and I’m stuck between following after Ezra or trying to help my brother.

  I choose to help Dylan, not that it makes anything better. All he does is slap out at me when I kneel down to help him, his voice strained when he snaps, “Get the fuck away from me.”

  Just great. This is bound to make things even worse for me at home.

  The thought runs through my head again that I need to join Ivy, and while making up my mind to buy a plane ticket to Miami as soon as possible, I push to my feet and walk down the hall to find Ezra in my bedroom.

  “Was that really necessary?” I ask while shutting the door.

  Ezra is sitting on the side of my bed, his forearms resting on his spread knees, his head hanging down. When he looks up at me, he runs his thumb slowly along his bottom lip, pure hatred brimming in his eyes as he studies me.

  “He deserved a lot worse. The only reason he’s not nursing a busted nose and several broken bones is because he’s your brother. Although, you might want to warn him he just used up his last chance with me.”

  Right. Like I can warn Dylan about anything. The little shit wouldn’t listen even if I did.

  I open my mouth to argue, but the words hang there unspoken when Ezra pushes up to his feet and storms toward me. My back hits the door and he cages me in, bringing his face down so we’re eye level as usual.

  As far as intimidation tactics go, I’ll never deny this one works. That damn amber stare of his has a way of making my heart stutter and my fear explode. His eyes glimmer with male appraisal, trapping me in place, so cold they burn.

  “I just realized today that I owe you something. It’s why I’m here.”

  I shake my head. “Yeah, nope. You don’t owe me a thing. Sorry you wasted your time coming over. Be sure to drive safely on your way home.”

  He grins, but not in a way that makes me feel safe.

  Leaning in closer, Ezra runs t
he tip of his nose against my jaw line, his fingers sliding over my waist in a soft threat, his smile stretching against my cheek when my body trembles at how close he is, a soft, feral sound of pure male satisfaction crawling up his throat.

  “You’re cute,” he whispers, and sadly it’s the nicest thing he’s said to me in the past four weeks, even if it is said in a way that drags icy fingers down my spine.

  I fight to swallow, my voice a shaky whisper when I ask, “What do you owe me?”

  “Three truths. Three pieces of my fucked-up life.”

  My teeth are sharp against my lip. And while I want to tell him not to worry about it, that he can move away from me now and take his truths with him, I need those pieces and refuse to give them up.

  I need to know. Even if he’s terrifying and cold while he gives those secrets to me.

  His breath beats against my face, his scent wrapping around me in the most sensual of promises. But it’s his heat that melts me against the door, my legs weak and palms pressed to the wood beside my legs.

  Closing my eyes, I absorb this man. Take him into me. Every part of him.

  His cold rage.

  His threats.

  His insults.

  His hatred.

  His violence.

  Like the stupid woman I am, I invite all of him in.

  Because I love Ezra and always will.

  Even if he stopped loving me a long time ago when I had no choice but to hurt him.

  “Fine, Ezra,” I say, my voice so weak even I can barely hear it, “if that’s what you want, just tell me.”

  Ezra

  There’s wisdom in the belief that a person should keep their enemies within reach. Keep them close. Keep them where you can study their behavior, their words, their every thought and movement.

  It’s what I’ve been doing to Emily these last couple of weeks, ever since seeing her at my father’s house, her long red hair blowing around her shoulders as she walked down the driveway without a care in the world, not realizing my attention was on her.

  The next time she saw Damon and me, she gave her usual smile to him and her typical scowl to me. She behaved as if she wasn’t going behind our backs and getting cozy with a man who’d abused us for more years than we can count. She batted her lashes and lied when joking with my brother, and she was careful not to meet my stare that often.

  Maybe because of the way I watched her. Without an ounce of the love I’ve always felt for her. Without an ounce of remorse for the things I said that were intended to cut right down her fleshy center and twist into her heart.

  I’m not sure Emily has any clue that I know what I know, but seeing as I’m not as patient as I’d like to be, I’m sick of waiting around to see if the guilt of what she’s doing ever gets to her.

  Today I realized she doesn’t know the full story, that all this time, I’ve protected her because I thought the truth would rip her apart.

  Now, I’m not so sure.

  This moment is dangerous for both of us. I can’t claim my body isn’t reacting to touching her, and I’m very aware of how my fingers curl on her waist with the need to clamp down and hold her in place.

  It’s taking all the self-control I have to be this close and not take what I want from her body, to not pin her down while I take my time to lick and bite and taste.

  I whisper instead because I have to keep myself focused so that I don’t lose control and lose myself into a woman I hate as much as I crave.

  “Tell me what you want to know.”

  Her body shivers, and I swallow down a groan to feel it.

  My hungry gaze traces the shape of her full mouth as she chews at her bottom lip. It’s a nervous habit I’m not sure she knows about, but one I’ve always noticed and appreciated.

  “Where were you taken?” she asks, her voice breathless and demure, her round eyes flicking up to meet mine.

  I study the dark color of her thick lashes, so long the tips brush her skin.

  Emily doesn’t blink, doesn’t dare look away from the threat staring her down.

  “To a warehouse.”

  “Your dad’s?”

  “No.”

  “Someone else’s?”

  I breathe her in, lean in to rub my cheek against hers.

  “Yes.”

  A light scraping sound catches my attention. I look down to where her hand touches the door. Emily’s fingers curl so slowly that her nails are scratching the wood.

  “Where’s the warehouse?”

  My eyes lift back to hers, my hand lifting so I can tangle my fingers with the end of her long red hair, giving it a quick, playful tug.

  Emily’s eyes soften to pure liquid, a sea that is still calm despite the storm fast approaching.

  “Is this your next question? You should be careful what you ask and how you ask. You only have two left.”

  The back of my hand brushes the side of her breast on accident. Still, we both react, my body growing hard as hers melts with compliance.

  I press my mouth to her ear. “Answer me.”

  “No,” she says before clearing her throat in an attempt to add more strength to her words. “That’s not my question.”

  Another pause, and I swear I can hear her thoughts rising and falling, one question switched for another and another and another, until she settles on one.

  “The bruises. Who gave them to you?”

  “Which bruises? There were always so many.”

  Her nails scratch against the door harder.

  A momentary pause, Emily’s breath held, her eyes blinking slowly as she turns her head to speak against my cheek.

  “All of them?”

  Her answer makes me laugh.

  “Nice try, killer. You’ll need to be more specific than that.”

  “The ones I first saw. The ones I kissed when you first showed me-“

  I press my thumb to her lips, partly because of the memory she’s dredging up, but mostly because I can’t help myself.

  Blinking her eyes rapidly, Emily shudders. She’s fighting something.

  Anger, from what I can feel of the energy rolling off her. Desire, if the way her body molds to mine means anything. Violence, if the quick, hard scratch of her nails against the door is any indication.

  Keeping my voice soft so she doesn’t hear the truth of what I’m fighting, I study her face while giving my answer.

  “Those bruises were from William.”

  This would be a good place for her to confess what she’s doing around my father. Now that she knows he was hands on in what happened to us. The ringleader, really.

  Emily says nothing on that subject.

  It only pisses me off more.

  “Why?” she asks, tears shimmering in her eyes, her lips moving against the soft press of my thumb.

  I ignore the rage simmering in my blood at her refusal to admit what she’s doing. Ignore the whispers of memory.

  Be a man!

  Is that what I taught you?

  Get the fuck up!

  “Is that your third question?”

  “Yes,” she says, then shakes her head. “I mean, no.”

  Pure frustration rolls across her expression as she reaches up to grab my wrist and tug my hand from her face.

  We stand silently, our shoulders moving with our breath, our chests pressed together and our legs tangled.

  Between us, Emily’s fingers grip my wrist, her thumbnail pressing into my skin.

  It causes just enough pain to snap me out of the fascination I have with her mouth so that my eyes lock with hers.

  A grin tugs at my lips, half amusement at her frustration and half mockery because I’m intentionally causing her distress with vague answers.

  Not that I ever planned to give her full answers. My only reason for coming here was to see if she’d admit what she’s doing behind my back.

  “What’s your third question?”

  The wheels are spinning again, the gears grinding.

  Emil
y is perfectly still, the only movement is her fingers tightening on my wrist, her nail cutting into my skin.

  I don’t mind the bite of pain. It helps focus me, helps keep me in the here and now rather than letting me slip into memory.

  Somehow she settles on the one question I hoped she’d never ask.

  “Did he make you hurt each other?”

  I flinch at the memory her words drag to the surface, guilt eating me whole, fucking devouring me as a ticking bomb in my head counts down to its final seconds.

  “He did,” she whispers when I don’t speak, an angry tear slipping from her eye to roll down her pale face. “You don’t need to answer that. I think I already know.”

  Life doesn’t always make sense.

  The heart is illogical.

  Your soul can’t help what it needs.

  There are a hundred reasons and bullshit explanations for why I still want Emily.

  Despite what happened in the past. Despite what’s happening now.

  Despite my cold fury and her blistering pain.

  I try to mentally shake myself of the desire I have to let it all go and take what I want, but I fight to remember why I’m here, fight to stay focused on the answers I came to get.

  “Do you have anything you want to tell me?”

  Her eyes close, more tears slipping free.

  “So much,” she admits, guilt obvious in her voice.

  “Like what?”

  A shuddering breath, her eyes opening again.

  “Just that I’m sorry.”

  “For?”

  Another breath.

  “Everything.”

  My hand slides up to her throat, but doesn’t squeeze. I’m practically shaking with the need to force the answers out of her. Emily’s fingers grip my wrist as I run the pad of thumb along the side of her neck.

  “I hate you,” I whisper against her mouth.

  “I know.”

  “And I fucking love you.”

  Her lips roll against mine, her teeth biting down. “I know.”

  “I can’t stand you.”