Page 114 of Remy

You’re losing your fucking mind.

I use the last of my strength to climb to my feet and brush my teeth, Remy’s jacket still resting over my shoulders, his scent invading my lungs.

I’m not thinking about you anymore.

I repeat the promise like a chant inside my head.

I won’t think of how protective you were.

Won’t glorify how passionately you threatened to kill someone who hurt me.

I stumble to my bedroom, boots still on, and face-plant into the comforter, whimpering at the alternatives. If I don’t distract myself with delusional thoughts of Remy, then I’ll only relive the attack, stew on my stupid decisions, or catastrophize my father’s cancer.

Glorifying the devil is the lesser of all those evils.

So that’s what I do. I lie there, his ring in my pocket, his jacket warming my shoulders, and his image in my mind as I succumb to exhaustion. I fall into a cavernous sleep, falling, falling, falling, the descent heavy, consuming, and littered with all things Remy… only to be woken with a start what feels like seconds later from the sharp vibration of my cell in my hand.

I groan and drag my phone toward my face.

2:32 a.m. Unknown number

You looked fucking beautiful tonight.

I snap upright, my brain protesting the harsh movement, my swollen temple throbbing.

It’s Remy.

It has to be.

Vultures spawn in my belly, a million wings rapidly flapping to create a storm of conflicting emotion.

I shouldn’t be thrilled by the compliment. I don’t want to like him. Don’t want to be attracted to?—

Shit.

Icy dread punches me in the gut.

The message isn’t a compliment.

It’s the fucking fulfillment of our renegotiated terms—he just killed someone and plans to use the retort.

21

OLIVIA

I scramble, running for the door only to skitter to a halt and dash back to my room.

I open my bedside drawer in the dark and feel around for the old chain I dropped inside years ago. I have no gun. No weapons. The only protection I have is the ring in my pocket that I hastily thread onto the thin silver necklace then clasp behind my neck.

Then I’m running for the door. Sprinting across my yard. Practically action-movie jumping into my car.

I make it to the funeral home in record time, my head fuzzy from sleep but my hectic pulse working to quickly rectify the lethargy.

I cut around to the rear of the two-story building to find Remy leaned against the back wall, his Bentley nosed up to the ten-foot high hedge, the overhead delivery room door open with his doppelgänger van parked inside.

My heart rate becomes erratic.

He’s definitely killed someone.

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