Page 124 of Brutal Vows

“Declan already told me.”

He purses his lips in dissatisfaction. “Did he tell ye I spent half the night flirtin’ with a Mafia lass and the other half dancin’ with her?”

“Do yourself a favor, lad. Stay away from the Italians. They’re murder on the nerves.”

Kieran and I bring Reyna’s bags in, along with a fresh suit for me that he picked up. Then he leaves to wait for us in the car. A few minutes later, a hotel employee arrives with the dresses I ordered up from the boutique. I tip her, wondering why her face is red, then realize I’ve still got nothing on but the towel.

When she’s gone and I’ve dressed, I knock on the bathroom door.

“Your clothes are here.”

When Reyna doesn’t answer when I knock again, a twinge of panic twists my stomach. I try the handle, but the door is locked.

“Woman, open this door.”

Nothing.

I rattle the handle. “You’ve got five seconds!”

Still nothing.

My brain presents me with a series of awful images, starting with a weeping Reyna sitting on the toilet with her head in her hands and accelerating directly to her lying naked in a pool of blood, her wrists slit, her skin blue, and her eyes wide open as they stare sightlessly at the ceiling.

My heart pounding and my breath coming fast, I rear back and give the door a hard kick.

It flies open and slams against the wall with a crash.

Wrapped in a towel, Reyna leans against the bathroom sink, filing her nails and smiling at me.

“I wondered how long that would take you. The silent treatment can be so annoying, can’t it?”

Relieved, frustrated, and angry, I snap, “Don’t do that again.”

She looks me up and down with an expression like I just staggered in off the street, covered in my own vomit.

I turn and grab her suitcases. I toss those into the bathroom, then go back for the wrapped packages from the boutique. I drop them onto the floor just inside the door.

“Get dressed. You have ten minutes.”

“Where are we going?”

“Out!”

Half an hour later, she sashays out of the bathroom with her nose in the air like she’s a socialite attending a fundraiser for her least favorite charity.

I’d say something about that bitchy look on her face and how late she is, but I can’t speak.

She’s wearing a sleeveless red dress. It appears to be at least one size too small, if not two. The neckline is plunging, from which her ample tits are spilling out. Her waist is cinched like she’s got a corset on, her legs are bare, her stilettos are sky-high, and all I can see are curves for days.

Gazing at me in cool silence, she raises her brows.

I have to pause for a rough throat clearing before I can talk. “Why didn’t you wear one of the white dresses?”

“I hate white.”

“It’s the color of new beginnings.”

“It’s the color of innocence.” Her smile is lethal. “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”