Page 66 of Need Him Like Oxygen

“She’s family.”

“Then you should know where she lives.”

“Not that kind of family,” I said.

That finally got his attention, making him watch me with scrunched brows.

“Still should probably know where she lives.”

“I know it’s on this street. And I know she’s in some sort of trouble. So tell me, or I’ll have my whole crew down here in five minutes to deal with you.”

“Don’t need to get your panties in a bunch. She’s in here,” he said, waving toward the building he was leaning against. “Came in like her ass was on fire. So I figure you’re not lying. And you better not be. Because I’d rather not be on that chick’s bad side.”

I didn’t waste any more time on him as I made my way to the door, about to hit all the intercoms until someone opened up, until I realized the door wasn’t even latched.

Real safe place.

Banking down my annoyance that she was so careless about her own safety, reminded myself that she was a grown-ass woman who got to make her own decisions, regardless of how asinine I might think they are.

Getting in was easier than I’d been planning.

But finding Cinna, that wasn’t easy.

Sure, there were mailboxes in the lobby, but none of them had her name on it. None of the packages gathered on the table had her address either.

“Fuck,” I grumbled, going into the elevator to go up to the first floor of apartments.

Where I proceeded to start knocking, acting like a clueless, lost visitor, claiming my sister must have given me the wrong apartment number.

The problem was, either no one actually knew Cinna by name, or they just weren’t willing to give out any information.

I made my way up to the second floor, and was waiting for some old lady with a three-pack-a-day habit voice to get to the door when I heard it.

Slamming on the floor above.

Some sort of struggle.

Adrenaline surged through me as I flew down the hallway, going to the stairs because I could run up them faster than the elevator could get to me.

My heart was in my throat, my pulse pounding in my ears, as I imagined all sorts of horrible scenarios of what could be happening to her already. Because I’d been wasting so much time trying to find her.

I was running down the hallway when I heard it.

Another loud thud.

Then grunting sounds.

I ran toward it.

Paused outside a closed door, not wanting to charge in until I was sure.

Inside, there was a muffled thunking sound, more grunting, and I decided to take my chances, whipping open the door, and moving inside.

“Cinna!” a voice called, drawing my gaze over toward a teen sitting on a hideous brown and white striped couch, his eyes huge, blood trickling from a cut on his neck.

“What?” Cinna’s voice called, high, panicky. “What is it?”

My gaze shot toward her voice, finding her on the ground, straddling the still form of a man, a large chef’s knife in her hand, blood soaking it to the handle, covering her hand.

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