Seducing My Husband's Brother

Indulging a Dead Man

RYAN

••••••••

The tremors in his hand. The way his hand—though weak—tightens around the pen, I saw his attack coming from a mile away and positioned myself to enable it.

Only, I underestimated his strength.

In a flash, he jumps at me, stabbing his weapon through the air.

I stop it with my palm, blocking my eye before the pen pierces it, but the pain that explodes in my flesh is definitely not enjoyable.

His weight, plus mine inclined, shifts the wooden chair out of balance, sending us both to the hard concrete ground.

Pain mixed with chills invades my senses, searing my nervous system—wrecking havoc.

Fuck!

"You will die by my hands!"

No.

He strikes a second time and I block using my hand again, the harsh material of the glove pressing against the exposed skin of my neck.

That was close. Really close.

I lift my second hand up, stopping any interruptions from Leon and Eli.

Marco is not a threat. If I can't protect myself from an already beaten up man, then do I deserve the position of Don?

With a grunt, he pulls the pen from my flesh, and I wish he'd just kept it there. Bringing it down again, I decide I've had enough.

Swiftly, my unharmed hand clamps around his wrist, twisting the annoying body part that just won't stop moving out of shape.

"Argh!" He claws at my skin with his second hand. "Ar...ghh!"

"Wrong choice." I mutter beneath my breath, the damp feeling of the ground already seeping into me. "You always make the wrong choices."

His eyes snap toward me, sharp and tears stricken. "You have feelings for HER!"

I c**k my head slightly, brows creased. "I need context."

"You judge me for my actions. Punish me for it—"

That statement comes with a spray of blood-tinted saliva.

"Uh-m."

"—you want to kill me out of jealousy. The real reason I'm here is not because I undermined the Reigns name by f*****g its daughter-in-law. You only want to punish me because I'm doing something you wish you could." He stops—finally. But continues. "Or probably you are already f*****g her."

My hold on his wrist tightens, but he doesn't react. Doesn't wince. He's probably lost his sense of feeling there.

A freakish laugh escapes his throat. "Considering she's pretty generous with her cunt, who's to say she hasn't—"

A dry crack breaks through the dark torture room, stealing the breath from the motherfucker's lungs as his face kisses the ground.

I lift my body and kick away the chair that's been uncomfortably sitting between my legs.

Leon helps me back to my feet. "Boss?"

I answer with a nod.

That conversation was expected.

Of course he'd bring up his brilliant hypothesis as to why I had him captured and tortured after inviting him over for formal reporting.

I also expected his hypothesis to be correct. I wasn't even hiding. From those letters, to the contempt with which I tortured him, not even wanting to hear his plea, it was definitely established that this was personal from the get go.

I just didn't expect he'd use his final breaths to disrespect her.

The were so obvious. Too obvious.

When Ryat talked about not finding any man in Purity's room, I immediately thought of the secret compartment in the wardrobe that I had installed for Purity's safety.

Only Marco knew about it. Only he could have utilized it in such an emergency.

I love my brother.

I'm of the ideology that family comes first, and I live by that, so it's not my intention to deceive him, Ryat can be a real pain in the ass.

More than that, he's unpredictable. He believes in violence before reason. Plus, it won't be the first time a male member of the family would be killing their spouse, due to similar reasons. Ryat would look up to Arturo when he pulled that trigger.

In an attempt to ensure Purity's safety, I employed Marco—one of our elite soldiers, and someone I know can take on my brother—to ensure that no harm comes to her.

I gave my usual, dull excuse; she's associated with the Cartel, we cannot afford to harm her.

Ryat wasn't pleased when I sent Marco over, but there was little he could do, and the dynamics were clear. Ryat mustn't in any way cause harm to his wife, and in situations where his primitive instincts take center stage, a soldier has been placed to stop him—without actually causing him harm of course.

Kicking the side of his torso, he rolls over, face to the ceiling, blood gushing from his nose and a new cut splitting his lips.

He spent three days screaming for answers, then utilized the remaining begging to be forgiven.

In these six days, I purposely didn't interrogate him. In fact, he was often gagged whenever he got chattier than pleading.

I made sure to keep him barely alive, and was extra careful about his hand since he needed it to write the notes.

For some reason, I didn't want her to feel abandoned. Didn't want he to go through that again, and maybe, just maybe, I wanted to apologize. In my own way.

Looking toward Eli, I nod. "Place him in a chair."

He nods, then bucks into action.

I turn to Leon. "We'll be needing another sheet of paper."

He nods.

Turning back to my hostage, I meet him in a sitting position, the wooden frame of the chair acting more as a skeletal system for his slack body.

Leon returns with the paper and I take it from him. Again, I drag the chair closer to Marco, placing it in front of him this time—a safe distance away.

Tears trail down his bruised skin, his pupils already dead.

"I won't write that." His voice is weak, disconnected.

"You can't." My eyes drop to his collapsed hand. "You are very much left-handed."

He lazily drops his gaze in the same direction, then a stupid laugh creeps through him. "How will Ryan get his love letter to his lover this time?"

My brows quirk, arching slightly. "Didn't know we were on a first-name basis already. Romantic."

Lifting my hand, Eli places a pen in it.

"You know," I lean into the stool, "my father calls himself a collector"—of art, artifacts, random objects, bodies—"his love for art is directly reflected in the names he thought up for his children. Tiziano."

I place the tip of the pen on the paper and begin to move my wrist, mirroring the way Marco writes, my mind going back to his previous letters, making sure I circle the O's exactly how he does, cross the f as he would, and stretch the g as long as he would.

Done with this little art piece, I lift it so he can see. "How did I do?"

Silence.

Only wide eyes and an equally ajar mouth.

Good. Looks like I did well.

Handing the letter to Eli, I push myself from the hard chair. "The saw."

Leon goes for it while I remain towering over the doomed man, staring him down. He doesn't meet my eyes, his focus on nothing in particular. Could that be his life flashing before him?

"I-if..." His voice breaks. "If you could do that all this while," he finally meets my eyes, "why did you torture me into doing it?"

I'm compelled to ignore him, but what's the harm in indulging a dead man?

Leon returns with the saw.

"I might have needed to watch how you write." I move behind him. There are other reasons of course—but what use is indulging a dead man?

My fingers travel through his matted, wet hair, pulling his head back and rendering his throat at my mercy.

I didn't give importance to listening to him because there was nothing to listen to. I trusted him with her and he betrayed my trust. That's all I know.

That's all there is to know.

And considering that little, intimate chat we had back there, it's definitely for the best that he doesn't speak.

Just as I place the blade on his skin, he allows his head to fall until he's staring straight into my eyes.

"Tell Camila... I love her."

My lids press closer. "No. You don't."

I begin. Shifting my hand, side to side, applying a little pressure so the blade moves inward.

His body jerks, a wet, broken sound claws out of his throat as his functional hand rakes blindly at his neck. "Guh-uhh..."

Leon braces him automatically, and Eli tries to pin him in place to stop the inevitable thrashing.

I wait till they restrain him. The cut has to be clean.

Presentation matters.