Page 64 of Priest and his Anarchist

I go through the motions of blow-drying my hair before plucking the first outfit I can find in the disarray of boxes. I need to unpack. Since being here, it’s been like one thing after another. Suddenly, I wake with mud under my fingers and a hangover from Hades.

My phone vibrates on the bedside table, and I pause. Like shards of glass, a shiver runs down my spine. I must have managed to plug it in on my journey to bed last night.

River’s name flashes over the screen before a number I don’t recognize pops up with it. Swiping it unlocked, I tap on River’s message first.

That was risky.

Finding the next number, I open it.

Stella’s number—save it! So you don’t have a repeat of last night.

Metal sparkles as I slide open the first drawer of my bedside table. Leather straps encase the sharp edges of my throwing stars. Another reminder of him. Everything is always such a damn reminder of him.

Slamming the drawer closed with my hip, I lower myself onto the bed and twist the strap around my thigh, tightening thebuckle. There’ve been times when I’d considered where I was going and whether I was making the right choices, but this isn’t one of those times.

I tap out a message to River.

I know.

She replies instantly after the text bubbles disappear.

Are you coming tonight?

What is tonight? There are always different events going on. I wonder if it is only because of the ritual and being so new.

I’ll try.

She leaves me on read, and it’s not until I’m under the parking garage that another text comes through.

You’re too pretty to die.

It’s like River to break tension with a joke.

Swinging my helmet under my arm, I quickly type out my reply.

And you’re too smart to call me pretty.

I fasten my helmet and tuck my hair beneath the collar of my leather jacket. Sleek black paint reflects off the overhead lights, and as soon as I’m straddling my bike, I feel at home. The purr of her starting sends a surge of adrenaline through my body.

Revving the engine, I kick off the stand and direct it from beneath the parking garage.

An hour later, I run my fingers through the strands of my hair and twist it into a low bun. Unzipping my jacket, I place it over the saddle of my blacked-out Ducati and rush across the busy street.

As soon as I’m in the building, I find the elevators and slide inside just before the doors close. A camera blinks red in the corner, and I flip open my compact mirror, gliding the stain of burned cherry over my lips. The elevator doors open with a ding, and I close the mirror with a smirk.

“—you’re late.”

My hand is in my holster before he can turn his suited back around to see his mistake. The first star slips from my thumb with sharp precision, hunting its target.

He strides forward, but it’s too late. The split in his forehead releases a flood of crimson as he tumbles to the floor.

I catch myself in the reflection of the window, dressed in all black with my blonde hair pinned up and the stain of death fresh on my lips. It reminded me of him.Everything reminded me of him.

The part I hate most about Priest Hayes is me.

Backtracking out of the office building and onto my bike, I flip open the compact phone and type a text.

Lost Rabbit

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