Page 161 of Sinful Like Us

Blood in my mouth, I spit to the side, and we’re on our feet. I outsize Tony, and I pin him against the wall, a framed picture of Loch Ness crashing down. This isn’t even a fair fight. I could drag him halfway around the house, and the fire in my lungs starts to die.

He’s weaker.

I don’t hurt weak things. I protect them.

He tries to head-butt me.

I fake left, then slam a fist in his gut, and he chokes out, “Outside.” He coughs. “Let’s go outside…and finish this.”

I narrow the hottest glare on him and I’m thinking,how stupid can this shitbag be?If the cold doesn’t kill him, I will.

“Scared, Banks?” He tries to slam me back. I don’t budge, and I twist his shirt more around my fist and hoist him higher up the wall.

He writhes.

“I’ll kill you,” I warn him.

Fear strikes his eyes for a fleeting second, then arrogance causes his lips to rise, and he shakes his head strongly. “I have you beat.”

My eyeballs sear, unblinking, and my chest is on fire—and if I take him up on his offer, if we go “fight it out” in frostbitten temperature and waist-deep snow, I won’t be fighting Tony.

I’ll be fightingmyself.To stop from killing him, and I want to be a man that Jane deserves.

Not a killer.

My hands are soaked in blood from war, and I haven’t taken a soul since.

“For a second, I thought you were Thatcher…”

I stiffen.

“But he’d never hesitate like you.” Tony laughs into a slight cough. “Looks like we know which one has the bigger balls.”

“Fuck you,” I growl between gritted teeth.

He tries to pry my hands off his shirt. “Let’s do this.”

My neck is tensed, and I release my grip. Breathing coarse breath through my nose.

Tony slides down, and he takes one step towards the front door—and I cold-cock him. Fist to jaw, and the blow is lights out.

He thumps to the floorboards.

Unconscious.

33

BANKS MORETTI

7 Extended Days Pretending to Be Thatcher

What a fuckin’day to have a killer migraine. I can count on my hand the number of times Xander leaves the house and greets daylight in a given week. And of course today—the day I have a blistering, thunder-fucking headache—I’m outside.

My aviators need three times the tint to combat the sun because Lord knows sunlight and I are old enemies. That billion-years-old burning ball of roid-raging fire likes to ramp up my headache by a thousand degrees.

Good thing Xander has no clue I’m in pain, or he probably would’ve insisted we return home. The last course of action I want is for that kid to change his plans for my ass.

I scratch the scuff along my jaw, grown out more than usual. Gold horns rest against my black button-down, the sleeves rolled as heat radiates from an outdoor fireplace.