Page 43 of Condemned By Betrayal
“I’ll call you back,” I murmur, then end the call, shove my phone back into my pocket, and turn to see Dad coming closer.
“Watching the ocean.”
“After getting drunk.”
I groan. “Come on, I’m not even that drunk.”
He takes my hand and pulls me away from the railing. “But drunk enough to fall.”
“Nope, won’t happen. I’m no longer suicidal.” I cover my mouth with my hand.So I’m really drunk.
He cups my cheek, his face shadowed with worry. “I know life’s been unfair to you, but you’re my strong daughter. You fought so bravely for so long. Promise me that whatever happens in the future, you’ll never stop fighting.”
I step closer and wrap my arms around him. His strong arms close around me. “I’m tired of fighting, Dad. I can’t fight anymore.”
His body tenses. I pull away with a smile on my face that isn’t forced, and like always, he notices.
“I’m fine now.”
He smiles, stroking my head, then takes my hand as we walk toward the mansion.
“By the way, why are you here instead of enjoying the party?”
“I’m a father to a little princess. Whether she’s two or twenty-two, I can’t enjoy a party without making sure she’s fine.”
I kiss his cheek. “You’re the best dad.”
He smiles.
Chapter 17
Hunter
Tomorrow she’ll be back. Just one more night without her.
I close my eyes and try to think about the better days ahead, when she’ll be in my arms, in my bed. But my mind keeps circling back to what Logan said to me after dinner.
“I think I’ve got a lead on where Salvario is. I’m not a hundred percent sure, but I think he’s in Canada. I’ll confirm it soon, hopefully.”
I sit up in bed, running a hand over my face. If he’s alive, why isn’t he coming for her? No matter what his reason is, I have to make sure I reach him before he reaches her, by any means.
I get out of bed to go out for a smoke, but then my eyes land on the journal on my bedside table. Her journal. I took it from her room when I was going through her things to learn what she likes. I know her less than that motherfucker does, and I hate it.
I need to know every detail about her—what she likes to wear, what she loves to eat, what side of the bed she sleeps on,how much of the night she spends on her side versus her back, what kind of hair ties she uses, how much heel height she’s comfortable with, what her handwriting looks like, how she holds the pen in her beautiful fingers when she writes, what face she makes when she’s concentrating.
I need to know everything, from her breathing patterns in different situations to every material thing she likes to touch.
I know that bastard knows. She was in his house for eleven days. She’s written about those days in the letters to him, revisiting each one and telling him what she felt.
To my relief, these letters don’t contain any details of them fucking, God knows how that would have made me lose my mind. Maybe I would’ve helped Logan find him sooner just so I could kill him faster.
I have to kill him anyway, whether she loves him or not. I can’t let him breathe. He knows what her skin feels like. He knows how her face shifts when she’s aroused. The bastard knows the exact pitch of her moans—when she wants more, when she’s close, when she comes.
“Fuck you, Hunter.” The words scrape past my clenched jaw. Why the fuck does my brain keep dragging me there, when it only ever leaves me scorched?
To change the method of my own torture, I pick up the journal. I’ve already read it once; now I’m doing it a second time. There can’t be a better way to torment myself than reading how much she loves that motherfucker.
On the left side are letters she wrote to him, and on the right side of the same page are short replies from him. He doesn’t use more than a few words. Like in the reply to her New Year’s letter—three pages long—he only writes a few lines answering her question about whether he celebrated it well.
