Page 64 of The Devil's Deal

I hear my exhales. Louder in the echo of the room.

The floor squeaks right outside my room, and my stomach flips, my pants getting louder. I have to find a place to hide. I swallow the heavy fear weighing me down into the floor, my legs refusing to move.

Please be Brian. I don’t want to die.

The footsteps return, heading away from me, and I hear a door close.

“Brian?” I whisper, almost to myself.

I have to know if it’s him. I have to know what happened tonight. If my staff is okay. My hand nears the doorknob, then backs away. I hate being afraid. It makes me feel weak and pathetic.

The amount of fear I lived in while I was growing up was overwhelming, and it’s kind of sad that I’m still living those days, in one way or another. My father has always been at the center of it all, and not much has changed.

Returning my palm to the doorknob, I attempt to turn it, but fear accosts me from every angle of this room. I give myself a few more seconds to stabilize my racing pulse and erratic heartbeats.

With massive apprehension, I turn the handle.

Slowly.

A little at a time.

Turn.

Turn.

The door squeaks as it parts.

Fuck.

I can practically taste the bile rising in my throat.

I wish I had a gun. My father taught me how to use one in case I needed to protect the club.

I know where Brian’s bedroom is. If I can run there and get inside, I’ll be safe. At least I hope so.

Okay. On three,I tell myself.

One.I part the door a little more and find the hallway covered in total darkness.

Two.I take a step out as my eyes adjust to the lack of light.

Three.I run like hell toward his room and open the door. I don’t even knock.

“Who the fuck is that?” he barks, and I hear what sounds like metal clanking.

“It’s Chiara. Don’t kill me,” I quickly say.

The lamp on his nightstand turns on, and he’s there sitting up, slouching, with a pistol in his hand, smears of blood marring the tattoo on his arm.

He doesn’t look right. Something’s wrong.

The strong, confident man is shadowed with a layer of pain.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you okay?”

I move forward with a single step.

He glares up, his chest inching up and down with ragged pants.

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