With Visions of Red: Book 3 (The Broken Bonds 3)

I swivel back around to find the bartender eyeing me. He sets the flute down, then slides a tumbler my way. “SoCo on the rocks.”

The nape of my neck tingles; the tiny hairs lifting away from my skin.

“I didn’t order that,” I say.

He tries to smooth it over with a smile. “No, ma’am. The gentleman at that table did.” He nods toward the opposite corner.

I don’t turn to look. Accepting my drinks with a corresponding smile, I pick up both the flute and the tumbler. Then I scoot off the barstool, my feet sure and my back straight as I pivot and saunter toward the table.

“Enjoying his drink is a little tacky, don’t you think?”

The man in the gray business suit drags his gaze over me. From my legs, up my red dress, to the necklace, meeting my eyes. A crooked smile hikes the corner of his mouth, jogging my memory. It’s the same knowing smirk he gave me that night in the club.

“It can’t be in bad taste if we enjoy it, now can it?” he says, his voice a mix of dark seduction and farce. “Have a seat. Please. I beg of you.”

I don’t approve of having my back to an open room, but considering the company, it’s best to keep my undivided attention on him. I set my drinks down and take the seat across the table from the UNSUB—who is no longer an unknown subject.

This secluded section gives us enough privacy, while being a good distance from the bar speakers so we can hear clearly, but our voices don’t carry to the other patrons. He chose well.

I drink from the tumbler, deciding that it’s about time I sample what Connelly favored, before I steeple my hands over the drink. “I feel as if introductions are a little late, but just the same…” I say, prompting him.

He crooks another smile at me. “Our given names are so trivial. But if my lady must know, I go by Price Alexander Wells.” His finger traces the tumbler before him as his dark eyes dance over my skin. “Lawyer by day, outlaw by night.” His smile dims when his poor joke gets no result. He clears his throat. “You have to forgive me. I’m somewhat nervous. See, this is a big moment for me.”

“Me, too,” I indulge him.

His smile returns.

“So, a lawyer,” I say, running my finger over the rim of the glass. “You wouldn’t happen to be Connelly’s lawyer. The same lawyer that transferred the title of his sailboat into Simon’s name.”

“Nothing slips past you.” He takes a sip of his drink. “Connelly thought it’d be a good idea to have a lawyer in his pocket. I guess, more than anything, that’s why he chose me. I used to flatter myself that there were other, more notable reasons. But when it comes right down to it, people are selfish beasts.”

“We are,” I agree.

He sits forward. “I hate to ask…because fishing is in such poor taste…but did you enjoy my gifts?”

A sharp pain hitches my breathing. The press of a blade against my thigh helps me swallow the yelp clawing up my throat, and I still the squirm traveling over me. “To answer that question truthfully, yes. At least, a part of me enjoyed them.”

His eyes darken. “I had hoped they wouldn’t be a disappointment. That by now, you’d realize that’s the only part that matters.”

The blade is gone within the same beat that he pushes back in his chair, giving me the space I need to present my case. I drink my champagne. All of it.

Then, “There are two antisocial dispositions”—I narrow my gaze—“psychopaths and sociopaths. Those who are born, and those who are forged.”

He clips a light laugh. “Battle of wills, is it?”

I nod slowly.

Arrogantly—as I anticipated he would be—he reaches across the table and steals my tumbler. His eyes drill into me as he tips the SoCo to his mouth. Then he returns the drink to me. “I always take what I want. I have since birth. So I suppose that means I was born to it,” he says effortlessly.

“And I was created.”

“The difference?”

The difference? Is there a difference when it comes right down to it? Until Colton found me, I thought I was incapable of feeling. Of empathy. After my captor broke me down to my barest attributes, I saw just how similar I was to him—how when stripped of all the things we think matter, everything we believe defines us, we’re all just creatures who will hurt, kill, deceive…who will do anything to survive. But not just survive: thrive.

The lesson my captor taught me was this: destroy or be destroyed.

Pain doesn’t always stem from those who intend us harm. It can come from the ones we trust the most. A parent—a well-meaning parent who, trying her best to shelter her child, suffocates them. A lover who believes he’s helping you overcome your pain, but inflicts it upon you in the process. Because he loves you so deeply…he can’t live without you. His codependency becomes your guilt.