Page 6 of Moth to a Flame

The vein in my temple throbs. My teeth grind.

Doesn’t matter? Doesn’t matter?

Everything about her matters.

Sweet fucking Regan with the name that means something.

I’d draw it out of her. Would play Twenty Questions if she told me to.

For now, I wait. This is the part where she tells him she’s not interested.

ReganE:Not a fan of summer myself, I guess.

My heart is a raging drum.

She answered? To that?

She likes him?

I’m not mad at her. I’m mad at the situation. At him, for sitting at home, looking atmygirl, and talking to her about the motherfucking weather.

Years of abstinence, of living a life I don’t like in the slightest. They go down the drain. Nothing could’ve prepared me for this. For the sharp pain in my chest.

For the flare of jealousy.

My vision blurs around the edges. I make a sound I don’t recognize in the back of my throat. My entire body vibrates with it. With this rage.

Understanding comes next. A clear realization of what I have to do now.

Yes, I forced him on her. Yes, it’s my fault they’re talking.

Doesn’t change the fact that he’s looking. At. Her.

His filthy green eyes are staring at what’s mine.

I go to the kitchen, grabbing the sharpest knife I own before heading to the foyer. On the short walk there, I pull up Marshall’s personal info into my phone.

His address comes up on my screen. I’ll be there soon enough. Manhattan is a little over an hour away, and this late at night, the traffic is light.

Boots. Keys. Leather gloves. A black wool hat to hide my hair that stands out.

The door shuts behind me.

My black Porsche—a despicable, overly flashy mode of transportation—roars, and I’m outside my gated home.

Marshall will pay for talking to my Regan.

With his life.

CHAPTER TWO

Landon

Marshall’s block is silentby the time I get there. I drive around in search of a parking spot and find one fast in one of the back alleys.

People appear from around the corner when my phone buzzes. I grab it from the console, just as the two men in jeans and dark sweatshirts cross the street.

Until these two slow as fuck jerks move along, I read the message from Moth to a Flame’s Chief of Operations.

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