Page 35 of Betrothed in Fury
I speed up even more, my sneakers beating a hard rhythm against the path as I push myself like I’m trying to outrun the past, things much darker than anything that happened that night. Demons lurking, waiting for me to let my guard down so they can creep in. Images from being a kid and walking into Hayward, seeing blood streaks across the floor.
I stop myself. I won’t let them win.
My watch buzzes with an incoming call. Killian. Seems I was appreciating his disregard too soon. I grunt, sending it to voice mail, then checking my running progress. Only half a mile left.
The buzzing returns.
The hell? Now he fucking needs me? For what?
I don’t even want to consider it, so I send him to voice mail again, and when he calls back, I remove my watch and chuck it.I’ve run through the courtyard enough to know when I’ll reach my goal.
Of course, throwing my watch away doesn’t stop me from feeling a lingering buzz in the back of my mind, this awareness that he’s calling, so he must want something from me. And if I don’t respond, is he gonna show up at Hayward and start shooting up until he can drag me from the place? I’m tempted to say no, but Killian is anything but predictable.
As I reach what I figure is a little over ten miles, I slow steadily to a stop, bowing forward and resting my hands on my thighs, catching my breath. My body’s soaked in sweat, and it drips like a leaky faucet from my bangs. Lowes approaches with a towel, and I pat down my face and arms.
“You want me to find your watch?”
“I’ll get it later.” I don’t want to deal with Killian until I’m ready to.
On my terms, which I imagine he’ll fucking hate.
When we reach my bedroom, my sweat has dried up. And there’s buzzing again. I look to my desk, where I left my phone, but it’s now on the damn floor. The guy must’ve been calling so much, it vibrated right off.
I pick it up. Thirteen missed calls. All from him.
“Piece of shit,” I mutter, hating that sooner or later, I’ll have to give up this freedom I’ve enjoyed over the past few days, still in denial about what I must do.
I see a text from Masters:the McLurens want to go in for some of our next stash. Need to talk.
As I’m about to confirm, that bastard Lorde is calling again.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” I answer.
“Glad you answered because I intended to keep calling until you did.”
He doesn’t sound as upset as I would’ve figured, which annoys me since I was trying to piss him off.
“If we’re gonna be married for real, then you’re gonna have to learn I won’t be at your beck and call. I have a life and boundaries.”
“Is there a reason you’re in a mood, Log?”
There’s a low growl, which I realize is coming from me.
“That’s hot,” he observes, poking at this familiar nerve he’s so good at agitating.
“I just saw you last week. If there was anything you needed to tell me, you could’ve done it then.”
I wait for him to reply, or at least tell me why the hell he called, but he’s quiet, the sort of silence Dad taught me to fear.
“What. Do. You. Want?” I press.
“I’m sorry, this isn’t something I’ve really had a lot of practice with, but I’m taking you out.”
“Out?”
“On a date,” he clarifies.
What the hell? I can’t get a fucking read on this guy.
