Page 33 of Live for Me

Which was the fuck of it. Most stalkers went unpunished.

But Abbie’s wouldn’t.

That fucker’s ashes would be spread on Hallow Ranch’s mountain before the summer was over—I had no doubt about that. I wouldn’t rest until I knew she was safe.

When I’d arrived at her place, it had taken every single ounce of willpower I’d been granted not to take her in my arms the second she opened that door.

But before I could get lost in those deep brown eyes, the man’s t-shirt hanging from her shoulders, concealing her curves from me, kept me in check.

That wasn’t my shirt, and it certainly wasn’t hers.

I knew that in my gut.

She’d been with someone else, and there was nothing I could do to change that. As much as I hated it, as much as it burned me from the inside out knowing another man had touched her, there was nothing I could do.

Of course, that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to hunt this man down and make sure the rest of his meals would be sucked up from a straw though.

I had to get her safe first and take care of her stalker.

Only then could I hunt down every single man she’d touched since me.

Fuck me, I had a fucking to-do list.

Fast forward ten minutes, and she was standing in the doorway of her little walk-in closet, filled with simple clothes that were all Abbie. She was grown woman now, with a successful career in journalism, and she had her own money. Yet, my wildflower still stuck to her roots, dressing simply. She was never the type of woman to spend hundreds of dollars on a purse or a pair of jeans. That just wasn’t her, and even if it was, I’d still be head over fucking heels for her.

There was no stopping the love I felt for her.

There was no cure for the spell she put on me.

There was no ending to Abbie.

Not for me.

My hands tightened on the tops of her boots as I clipped, “Abbie, we don’t have fucking time for this.”

She pushed back some of her wavy chestnut brown hair, drawing my attention to it. She’d kept it shorter than she had in the past, the ends only reaching to the middle of her chest instead of hanging down her back. Somehow, the shorter length made her even look more wild, and I wondered if she tried to tame it for her day-to-day life.

Did she let the rest of the world see her wild side?

Or was that only reserved for the men who shared her bed?

She rolled her eyes and moved, pushing past me and walking to the other side of her room. I had to hand it to her; her home was stunning—exactly what I’d pictured.

It was old but well kept. Her kitchen and living room were bright, airy, reminding me of Denver’s living room at Hallow Ranch. Along the walls of the hallway, she had pictures of her and her friends, pictures of the mountains, and then, of course, her paintings. As I was carrying her down the hall to her bedroom, the sight of them almost made my heart stop. I’d thought—assumed—when she left me, she would stop painting.

I was glad to know she hadn’t.

Painting was her way of feeling free, and I was utterly entranced by every single piece she created.

Her bedroom was a surprise to me, though. I expected light and airy, like the rest of her home. However, in here, I felt it—her pain. The walls were dark in color. I didn’t bother turning on any of the lights, so I guessed they were a dark blue or green. Her bed had dark sheets and an even darker duvet on top. On top of her dresser, things were piled up, and in the corner of the room where I’d stolen her chair from, there were stacks of books on the floor, covering a multitude of subjects as well as a few stray notebooks and pens scattered along the floor.

This was her true space. Out there, my wildflower was putting on a show, but in here, in the sanctuary of her bedroom, she didn’t have to. She was allowed to be herself.

Which bothered me almost as much as her having a stalker.

She was living in pain—just like me—and I didn’t understand it.

Why in the world was she in so much pain if she’d achieved her dream?

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