Page 117 of Quinlan

Damn it. Damn it all to hell.

It angers me that they just ripped me from my life. That they’ve been stalking me. That they didn’t ask, that they assumed I’d need them. They had no right.

And yet…I’m no monster.

And neither are they. They tucked me in last night. They emailed me, each one of them, this evening, saying I’m doing a great job.

The men who are responsible for the soreness between my legs. For the black and blue bruises on my flesh.

A strange emotion tugs at my heart. A longing. A pull.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. It’s all wrong to miss Damien’s wicked, playful expression. Liam’s glares. The pressure of Rome’s hand around my throat.

But I do. I miss them. These men saidthingsto me yesterday. Words that sounded a lot like promises. They were promises.

They don’t hate me. It wouldn’t be that bad, thatwrong, to show my face. Talk to them. Right?

My feet work faster before common sense can answer that question.

Another second of hesitation, and I won’t be brave enough to leave this room.

I’ll go crazy if I won’t. That’s a scary realization.

It’s all I have.

Seeking them out is a risky move. They’re volatile. There’s no telling which one of them is up at this hour, what version of them I’ll be getting. Whether they be kind or aggressive or flat-out unhinged.

I’m taking my chances, anyway. Walking toward the door of my bedroom, not bothering to change out of my jeans and grayT-shirt. Bra? Who needs those? Not me. I pull on my hairband, releasing my hair down my back, running my fingers through it.

No dresser barricades my door today. No one violated me in my sleep. No one barged in this morning. They could’ve, and instead they let me be.

The door opens in a softwhoosh.

No one’s waiting for me outside my room, but I can’t assume they’re not here. Stalkers don’t just announce themselves. They tricked me yesterday. They could, and probably would, do it again.

The stairwell is ten steps away when I hear it. Rustling papers. A grunt. Pacing. A thud as a man’s body meets the sofa.

Damien’s and Liam’s bedroom doors are closed—the usernames on Damien’s and Rome’s laptops gave them away yesterday. It isn’t them. I won’t barge in, just in case they’re sleeping.

On top of not being a monster, I’m not rude. I could’ve come out of my room earlier, at a decent hour. I didn’t. So no, I won’t wake them.

Rome, he hasn’t turned in yet. I’m going to…do what exactly? Sit next to him? Ask him about his day? Ask for answers, politely this time?

No idea.

My instincts push me forward, so I follow.

“No.” The frustration in his voice is palpable, stopping me at the top of the stairs. “Absolutely not.”

Who is he talking to? Is he on the phone? He could be talking to himself, like I did. It could be it.

On the first floor, I see him as well as hear him. He’s sitting on the sofa, his large back to me. His head is tipped back, his black T-shirt stretching around his shoulders.

I’m being a peeping Tom, standing here without announcing myself. Then again, these men had me fucking stalked. I’d say I’ve earned it.

“Anne, you don’t have to come.” The phone isn’t pressed to his ear. He’s using earbuds, then. “No. You know what, don’t. It won’t do you any good. Why—I—please, for the love of God, don’t fight me on this. I don’t want you to be there. I have this.”

He doesn’t want her there. There as in here? I never thought it could be a bachelor pad, but his phone call is slowly changing my mind.

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