Page 2 of Runaway Hearts: Seduced by Danger

“Well, don’t think you can leave until I say so.” Her voice carries a hint of disdain bubbling just beneath the surface.

Her condescension fuels an ember within me.

I know better than to challenge Carole, as well as the consequences of standing up to my boss. More work hours. Switch to Friday nights.Forgotten hours on the timesheet. When she glares at me, it’s like walking on thin ice, waiting for the inevitable crack and plunge into freezing water. She’s a master at exploiting my innate need to help others, twisting it for her own gain.

A little PTSD, perhaps?

But a part of me longs to defy her, to break free from the suffocating grip of her control.

It’s been so long since I had any control at all.

As if sensing my inner turmoil, Carole’s expression softens, though the venom in her voice remains. “Listen,” she says. “I hate to ruin your plans, but we’re short-staffed tonight. I need someone to stay for a few extra hours.”

My stomach churns at the request, the prickling hot needles of anger in my throat burning away my resolve. I must leave for Nay tomorrow morning to get to my beach house. But I’ve never been able to say no.

If Eric ever taught me one thing, it’s to avoid confrontation at all costs, for it might cause bruises—physical and emotional.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I force out through gritted teeth.

Carole’s lips curl into a smug smile, her eyes gleaming triumphantly. “Good, I knew I could count on you to do the right thing.”

As she turns, my eyes roll back, and I stick my tongue out to her.

How would Seito, my manga book hero, deal with such a bitch?

Option one: A swift slit of the throat during her sleep—efficient yet messy.

Option two: A dose of cyanide introduced into her coffee—witnessing the gradual disintegration of her internal organs.

Option three: A poetic push off the balcony—a symbolic descent mirroring her character.

Oh my. Marianne. Stop thinking like that!

My overactive imagination sends a wave of laughter through my body, causing my eyelids to flutter, but no sound comes from my closed mouth.

I step into the sorting unit and check on the new arrivals written on the board.

Five people were injured in a car accident; four teenagers were beaten in a brawl, three heart attacks, two factory accidents, and a little boy who bit an electrical wire.

Amid the commotion, I spot two teenage girls being wheeled in on stretchers, their faces bruised and bloodied.

I rush to the nearest stretcher, where one girl lies, trembling, her tear-streaked face a mask of pain.

“What happened?” I ask as I assess her injuries.

Her arm is likely broken, and bruises are blossoming across her skin like dark petals.

She winces as she recounts the events that led to the brawl. “We... we were just hanging out at the park,” she says, her words punctuated by gasps of pain. “And then these guys showed up, looking for trouble. We just told them we weren’t interested, you know.”

I do.

My heart clenches with empathy, and I shake the irritating memories trying to surface—times I said no, and shit happened anyway—focusing on the task at hand.

“What’s your name?”

“C-Chloe.”

A few hours and I’m on a twenty-one days’ vacation.

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