Page 75 of Addicted Lies

I offer one curt nod, then place the tip of my crowbar at my throat and drag it along the skin as if slitting it—a clear warning.

His body trembles and his knees go weak and give out. He falls into a puddle. I stare down at him, wanting to put this fucker out of his misery. I can’t believe they actually thought this man was a good choice for her. He’s all talk, but when faced by a demon, he’ll throw anything or anyone out as a sacrifice. He’s the worst type of man and certainly not good enough to be by her side.

“You don’t want me near her?” he inquires quietly.

I nod again. Fucking idiot has some brain cells after all. The cigarette that fell out of his mouth smolders on the ground.

I imagine all the things I could do to this pitiful man. They called him powerful, but he’s nothing but a sheep in wolf’s skin, trying to play in a world he was never meant to be a part of. Sure, he can ruin someone’s reputation, but that means nothing to someone like me, who doesn’t give a fuck what others think.

But Billie has too much to lose, and I’m not willing to leave it to chance that he isn’t bold enough to target her after she so publicly rejected him.

“I won’t go near her, I swear.” He whimpers. “Please, just let me go.”

Let him go.My lip curls at the thought. I’ve never been good at catch and release. I hunt my prey, and I bring it back to my master. Then again, I’ve never acted of my own accord before. Not until now.

I care about her more than I’m able to express in words.

And I’ve never had much restraint when it came to my addictions.

But I force myself to take one step backward.

And then another, slowly backing down the alley, only turning away from the sniveling asshole when I’m a few feet from the street.

I may lack in restraint most of the time, but I can force it when I need to. To protect her. To not bring questions about her or our relationship.

But it doesn’t mean I’m done with her.

I can’t be.

I can’t let go.

Even when she asks me to.

CHAPTER 35

Billie

He knocks on my door.

I don’t answer it.

He knocks again the following day.

I still don’t answer.

I know it’s him. He’s the only person who would knock and not call my name.

So when Monday comes along, and I open the door, I don’t expect to find him standing there. But here he is, coffee in hand, dark gaze locked on me.

“It’s my birthday,” he says, offering me the coffee.

“I’m late,” I tell him, not accepting it. “Happy birthday,” I add just as he holds the cup out to me again. I ignore the coffee, shut, and lock the door, and walk past him. He follows. Because of course he does.

“Will you come over tonight?” he asks.

“No,” I reply without hesitation.

“Tomorrow night?”

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