Page 133 of Play the Game

“Scottie?” My tone is stern.

Shutter brushes against me and nips my ankle. I pull my leg back and glare at him. As soon as he sees me looking at him, he prances to the kitchen and stands in front of the pantry door. He claws at it a few times before I walk over and slowly pull it open.

Shock makes me drop to my knees when I see her. I pull her into my lap and quickly unclench her fingers from the tight grip on the knife. It slips to the floor with a clank.

“Baby, what are you doing?” I try to keep my tone normal.

Her entire body trembles in my grip, and when our eyes meet, I’m not sure she even recognizes me, which scares the fuck out of me.

Fifty-Five

SCOTTIE

I can’t breathe.

My hand hurts, and the room turns on its side.

“Scottie.”

My heart beats too fast. I push my palm into the center of my chest to make it stop, but it won’t.

“Shit.Baby.”

Why won’t the fucking room stop spinning? I’m present, but I’m not. The pain in my hand grounds me to reality, but the deep ache of fear clouds everything until I’m in a spiral.

But then, it stops.

Suddenly, air fills my lungs, and the thoughts evaporate.

Even the sting of pain running up my arm disappears.

His lips are calming, and the taste of him against my tongue is like a remedy. When the room rights itself, I stare up into Emory’s worried eyes, too afraid to look away, yet embarrassed enough to want to.

“Who is William?” he whispers, wiping my wet cheeks.

“Wh…what?” My body grows with heat. I’m sweaty but also chilled to the bone.

“Shit.” Emory pulls my hand close to his face and inspects it. “Your hand.”

He sweeps me off my feet, and the confusion follows me until he places me on the kitchen counter beside the sink. His grip never leaves me. Even as he reaches for the dish towel and wets it under the stream of water, he keeps his hand on my leg.

“Come here,” he mutters softly, pulling my hand closer. One by one, he loosens my fingers and reveals my sliced palm. I jerk at the touch of the cool towel. A hiss slips between my teeth from the sting, but it disappears when Emory winds his hand up my neck until his fingers are buried in my hair.

“Who is William? Did he come into the house?”

“What?” I shake my head at the absurd thought. “No.”

“The door was open,” he argues, bouncing his eyes back and forth between mine. There’s a worry line in between them, and I hate that I’m the reason it's there.

I’m mortified and embarrassed. It’s been years since I’ve done this. I can hardly look Emory in the eye because he probably thinks I’m certifiable.

My bottom lip trembles for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. “I am so sorry.” I swallow the tight lump in my throat. “No one is in the house.”

I lean forward slightly and look at my feet to see if they’re covered in dirt.

Thank God, they aren’t.

“Scottie, the door is open. Are you sure no one came inside?”

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