Page 35 of Stolen By the Bratva King

I throw the car door open and step out, turning around to face David. He’s still in his seat, blinking up at me as if I’m a bomb that’s about to explode in his face.

Maybe I should hit him where it hurts, to make him regret ever making snide comments to me, for putting me in danger and blaming me when I have a meltdown about it.

“Fine, I’ll just leave, then,” I say.

I slam the car door and march toward the entrance to the condo, tossing it open with such force the knob dings the drywall behind it. I don’t care. I keep plowing forward.

David catches up to me in the bedroom where I’m flinging clothes into my suitcase. He stands in the door frame, his eyes sad and bewildered. “What are you doing?”

Without looking at him, I say, “what does it look like I’m doing?”

“Packing,” he says in a flat tone.

“Wow, you’re a genius.” I stand up and breeze past him on the way to get my toiletries from the bathroom counter.

He stiffens but doesn’t reach out for me. Another dent to my heart. Do I want him to hold me and stroke my hair, or do I want to punch him? I’m so conflicted, and my brain is fuming.

My thoughts race about how I can get back at him, brainstorming ways to dig into his operations and make him crash and burn. He should suffer the way I’m suffering, feeling the scorching heat of betrayal on his perfect skin.

My blood is boiling. I catch him staring at me, his eyes following me everywhere I move. It’s crawling under my skin. I need to get out of here before I incinerate and lose myself in the winds of torment.

“I can’t believe I ever slept with you,” I hiss as I throw my shampoo into the suitcase. I zip it and lug it up, gripping the handle and wheeling it out, heavy and clunky behind me. The wheels click as I roll it.

“You should wait to leave until you are cooled down,” David says, a warning in his tone.

“I think I’m done taking your advice, thank you very much.” I make a beeline for the door. Yes, rational thought is completely lost on me in my current mental state.

“At least let me walk you out,” David insists.

I spin and face him, my eyes blazing. David, who is exposed to gunfire and threats all the time, has a frightened look on his face. Maybe it’s just women he can’t handle.

“I wish you all the best,” I lie, keeping my thoughts to myself about how I’ll be on a warpath for revenge, as soon as I figure out how to do it. “Please don’t follow me out. I need to move on, as you said. You know, do the fluffy, lighthearted stories aboutnothing and nobody important. Since that’s all I’m good for, after all.” I make sure to look him in the eyes as I throw his own hurtful words right back at him.

David’s eyes crinkle in the corner and his jaw twitches. He opens his mouth, closes it.

My stare is icy. “That’s what I thought.”

I spin around, hair whipping behind me. I walk out the door and toward my car in the first guest parking spot in front of his condo. David doesn’t follow me out, but I feel his watchful gaze imprinting on my soul as I drive away.

By the timeI get home and turn on every light, I’m calmer, but adrenaline still has my arms and legs shaking.

I collapse on my bed. Hot tears blur in my eyes and roll down my cheeks. I do nothing to wipe them away. I stare up at the ceiling, momentarily hypnotized by the whirl of the fan blades spinning around and around.

I don’t know how long I lay there, sprawled out like a starfish, trying to regulate my breathing and my heartbeat, but it must be a while, because my eyelids get heavy, and wilt closed.

The sound of my phone ringing jars me awake. I’m disoriented, a migraine forming between my temples.

I prop myself on my elbows and blink as my eyes adjust to the light in my bedroom. It’s familiar and cozy, and I sigh with relief.

The tension winds itself back through my spine as I glance down at my phone. David’s number flashes across the screen.

I clench my jaw and after another second of hesitation, I swipe to answer the call.

“What?” I croak, surprised by how exhausted my voice sounds.

“Hazel?” David’s subdued, Russian accent makes my pulse pick up.

“Yes?” I whisper.

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