He’d had to walk in on Misha with that damn sniper rifle in his hands and casually planning a murder to take that step. And that right there said a lot more about his own character than Misha’s, something that nearly made him choke on self-loathing and a hefty dose of bitterness.
“Who is he?” he asked, too late in the game, but he figured he might as well clear up a few issues that had been nagging at him since New Orleans before one of them did something stupid and they both crashed and burned officially. “Your enforcer? Didn’t want to kill me yourself?”
Misha flinched at the accusation and McClane tried to push out and wrap Riley completely in armor, but Riley shook his head and stopped the attempt without conscious effort.
“Nah,” he muttered, eyes narrowing as he took in Misha’s tense form, the trepidation in the man’s eyes, the apparent lack of weapons. “You wanted to kill me, you’d’ve tried already. So why go to all this trouble?” He hadn’t thought Misha to be cruel, but then he’d been wrong about a lot of things and willfully blind about too many others. So what had Misha gotten out of their relationship? What were the most common reasons for hunting someone down (and also, incidentally, the most common motives for murder)? Money, revenge, and sex. Well, there was his answer, he guessed, because—compared to Misha—he had no money and he’d never done anything to warrant revenge. “Oh, I’m sorry. Weren’t you done playing with me?”
McClane twitched, agitated by Riley’s viciousness, blessedly silent as he waited for the barest signal to engage.
“I wasn’t playing you.”
Misha looked ill at the very idea, but Riley was too hurt and too angry to give a damn. He didn’t often get mad, was much more likely to suppress, deny, and walk away when somebody got to him, but Misha had always been good at pushing Riley’s buttons, both good and bad. He let it happen, then, let the shame and rage roar through his veins, tear through him and out through his pores until he was coated in rippling, shifting armor. McClane hissed wordlessly in his ears, whipped along in the flood of Riley’s furious anguish until he thought only in serrated blades and smooth armor plates.
He had been played, no matter what Misha claimed now, and it hurt so much worse because Riley should’ve known better.
“You sure?” he growled, and there was metal in his voice, a blunt, angry edge. “’Cause from where I’m standing, it looks like you got me good.” Gentled like a skittish horse, roped in like a bimbo, lured out with the patience of a sniper, and it made Riley’s gorge rise how desperate he must’ve been for affection to let it happen. “Hell, you had me spreadin’ my legs and taking it like a good little slu—”