Page 65 of Priest and his Anarchist

As soon as I’m in the confinement of the underground garage, I strip out of my clothes, leaving me in my lace bra, underwear, and thigh-high boots. I jog toward the waiting car, where exhaust fumes billow through the air. I pull open the passenger door to toss my clothes inside when familiar eyes land on mine.

Electricity snaps through me. I should slam this door closed and run, but the tie that connects us cements my feet to the ground.

“Good job, Madness.”

“Right. I forgot.”

“What? That it’s me who runs the show now?” He’s leaning to the side of his door, his legs spread wide carelessly. “Tell me. Does that mean that the Fathers have seen all of this—” Stripping me naked with every second, he pauses on the holster, working the muscles in his jaw. “—and the fuck-me boots.”

I fumble with the zipper, forcing the first one off. “And no, Priest. They haven’t seen me half-naked.” I toss the first one into the passenger seat before starting on the other.

“Hmmm.” The low hum would stop me if I wasn’t determined to get the hell out of here. The second boot is more stubborn than the first. “They’re not missing out on much.”

Finally feeling the release of the second, I throw it onto his lap. A slow smirk creeps onto his mouth, but I don’t wait for his laugh as I step away, slamming the door closed and flipping him off through the tint. His exhaust lets out a throaty growl when he revs the engine before boosting off into the dark of the night.

I stand momentarily, staring at the tire marks he left behind, before turning to the elevator and pressing the up button. Back in my apartment, I toss the keys to my bike into a bowl and slide open a kitchen drawer, finding my phone and opening a new message to River.

He’s already taken over.

I haven’t even climbed my stairs when her reply vibrates against my hand.

Yep. Straight after. Sorry.

Why sorry?

I wait for her reply, and when it comes through, my mouth turns dry.

Because he found something he loves more than killing. Tormenting you.

I toss my phone onto my bed and fall into the spray of hot water. After scrubbing death off me—at least from the outside—I clutch the towel around my chest and lower to my bed while sending a quick text to River.

Fuck it. I’m coming tonight.

* * *

Twigs snap beneath the soles of my feet, but I keep running. My lungs burn as the first taste of iron hits my throat, each exhale heavier than the last.

I push forward. What would meet me if I stopped running would be even worse.

I should have stayed home. The less access they have, the more I can focus on what’s important.

For whatever reason, he’s still not going to relent.

For whatever reason, I have to continue to fall.

Breaking through the thick brush of trees, moonlight shines down on me from above, and the open air feels like a balm compared to the exhaustion of the congested forest.

In an illumination of black and white, tiles lead the way through thick hedges that puzzle together, leading you into a deep world of strange horror.

I have no options. No out.

This time, when I wake up in the morning with mud beneath my nails and the hangover of regret heavy in my head, I’ll have no one to blame but myself.

Not a single damn person.

My mouth dries as my throat tightens around the words I want to say. Or scream. There is only forward.

My movements are slow when I lift my head, unable to disengage from the pull of familiar darkness that calls to me. With modern Gothic architecture and a silhouette of blackened walls that breathe in the fear that’s so often left behind by its owner, Priest’s mansion sits tauntingly.

---