Page 113 of Captive Audience

He tilted my chin up. “Are you okay?”

“I am now.”

“How do you know him?”

“From when I worked atThe Inquirer.”

A murderous growl rumbled in his chest. “I’m going to ask you something important, and I need you to be honest.” His eyes searched mine. “Aside from what that bastard did to you tonight, has he hurt you before?”

I swallowed hard. “Yes.”

Rook’s lips thinned like he understood. “I thought so.”

Maybe my trauma was written all over my face, or maybe he’d seen enough predators to recognize one.

“Stay with Orla and Finn while I handle this, okay?”

“Okay.”

He dipped low and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek. “You’ve been brave tonight. I’m sorry I didn’t get to you sooner.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” I hesitated. “What are you going to do to him?”

“You know the answer.”

“You don’t have to do that for me.”

“Let me make this clear, love. I already know where I’m putting his body. The only thing left is deciding how much pain I put him through before he spends eternity in hell.”

Greg had two ex-wives but no kids. Maybe someone would mourn him, but there wasn’t a doubt in my mind that the world would be a better place without him in it.

When I thought about the torment Greg had caused me, the humiliation, the sleepless nights, and the years of self-loathing over letting him get away with it, rage coiled tight inside me.

What angered me most was his entitlement. Like women’s bodies were his to take, and there wasn’t a damn thing we could do about it.

Until now.

I met Rook’s gaze. “Make him suffer.”

His mouth curved, beautiful and deadly. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

43

ROOK

By the time I caught up with Aidan in the stairwell, the weasel-faced wanker who’d laid hands on my wife had finally realized he wasn’t getting tossed out of the party with a stern warning and had started fighting back.

Too little, too fucking late.

“Unfinished apartment. Two floors down,” I said.

Aidan nodded, barely struggling with the irate fool he had in a choke hold. My cousin had dragged heavyweights across the octagon by the throat. Weasel Face didn’t register on his scale.

The apartment door creaked open. No electricity, no flooring. Just concrete, scaffolding, and shadows. The perfect place to play a little game oftorment the pervert.

Aidan dumped Weasel Face onto the unfinished floor. He hit the concrete with a meaty thud, and a bloody tooth skittered past my shoe.

I glanced at my cousin. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”