Page 39 of Blood

“Fuck you,” I snap.

“We don’t have time. As soon as we get home, though, it’s all we’ll be doing.” Shoving me off him, I collide with the wall, my shoulder smarting from the impact on the already bruised bone.

“Why were you calling Callan Cox?” I wheeze, the air knocked out of me.

He freezes, fists clenched. “How the fuck would you know that?” The room shrinks around him. Wide, furious eyes burn through my face. He rushes me, his fist punching a hole in the wall beside me. “You been cozying up to him?” he sneers.

“No,” I bellow, my heart racing and gums stinging.

“How would you know that I called him?” He grabs my shoulders, turning me to face him. “Princess, how the fuck do you know that?”

“Just tell me!” I yell.

Blowing out a waft of air, he paces, pinching the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb. “We have business with them over a shipment delivered to the wrong dock.”

I look for a lie, but Tyler’s face softens. “Baby, this is insanity. I fucking hate us being at odds like this. Come home, and I promise we’ll get everyone looking into Harley’s death.”

They should have been doing that anyway. “I’m not coming back.” My lip is swelling, and it hurts to talk. “Yet,” I add.

Rage radiates from him. Breathing deep like a dragon ready to flay his enemy, he grits his teeth, pointing a finger at me.

“If you don’t come home, I’ll tell everyone where I found you. Who you’re mingling with. Do you want to risk impeachment?”

“I’ll come back when I’m ready.”

Tutting, he opens the motel door. “What would your father say?” Then slams it behind him.

Anger, grief, and disgust boil inside me. Charging after him, I scream, “You know what he’d say—why aren’t my brothers hellbent on finding my kid’s killer!”

Silence. Still and deadly.

He marches over to where I am standing in the middle of the parking lot, barefoot and fucking crazy, and grips my jaw, planting a rough kiss on my lips. “See you real soon, baby.” My blood stains his mouth, but he doesn’t wipe it away as he mounts his bike. “One week, Princess. Don’t make me come back here.” He revs his bike and rides away.Bastard.

Whirling around, my gaze lifts to the balcony above my room—to the silhouette watching our exchange. My stomach drops to my feet. My skin turns cold, clammy.

Fucking Georgina.

I take a step forward, and she darts down the stairs. She’s gone by the time I make it over there.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I need to go to the club before she can. Talk to Callan. Make something up. Would he even believe her? Would she risk telling him and him thinking she’s playing games?

Fuck.

Racing back to my room, I grab my sneakers and pull them on. My chest pounds as I check my face in the mirror. My cheek is swelling. My lip is fat. I wash my mouth out, scrubbing the blood from the cracks, then drop to my knees and yank the gun from my bag beneath the bed. Sliding the barrel, I make sure it’s loaded, then shove it into the back of my sweats and throw on a light jacket to cover it.Just in case.

I jump in the Jeep and drive back to the compound, my leg bouncing and chewing my nails as I drive. This could be suicide.

Thud.

The gate opens, allowing me entry. A few people are milling around outside when I pull up. “Gorgeous.” Dodger nods his head in greeting.

I wave a hand and point to the door. “Can you let me in?”

“Sure thing.” He keys in the number, and the door buzzes, the latch releasing. Fear lifts the hairs on the back of my neck as I enter. I’m trying to think but can’t over the sound of rushing blood in my head.

“Hey, darlin’. You want some food? I just cooked breakfast,” Diamond greets me as I walk into the foyer, her hands curled around a mug of coffee.

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