Page 178 of Revenge Puck

I lean back into the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling. “I keep thinking about all the times he confronted me about the relationship, making it seem like Aaron was evil. All along, he was worried I’d find out he’d diddled Aaron’s girlfriend.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

I sniffle, reaching for another tissue. Blow loudly, another wave of tears streaming down my face.

“That’s it. I can’t take it anymore.” Blaire stands, stalking to the kitchen and snatching her keys off the counter.

I blink at her from the couch, mascara smudged down my cheeks, all the way to my chin.

“Where are you going?”

“To handle your brother.” She’s already at the door. “You stay here.”

As if I would leave? I look horrible.

Feel worse.

“Blaire—”

The door slams.

And then it’s just me.

Alone with my thoughts.

Which is, frankly, the worst possible company.

I pace.

I sit. I cry for the tenth time. I pick up my phone and attempt to thumb through my socials as if it’ll keep my mind off this mess.

It doesn’t.

Every passing minute stretches. I imagine Blaire marching into the arena. Or his condo. Or dragging him through a parking lot by the collar of his shirt, Neanderthal style.

Part of me is horrified.

Most of me is eternally grateful.

Two hours later, when the door finally unlocks, I’ve convinced myself she’s either been arrested or has murdered him and needs me to hide the body.

Instead, she walks in carrying two paper bags and the energy of someone who has assaulted a man with her verbal barbs and relished every single second of it.

She is charged.

Buzzing.

Exhilarated.

There’s a sparkle in her eye, and it replaces the murderous look she had before she left.

She kicks the door shut with her heel and drops the bags on the coffee table. “And before you ask, yes. I found him.”

My stomach flips. “Where?”

“His stupid condo.”

It hasn’t escaped my notice that Blaire has taken to using unflattering adjectives in association with Declan.