Page 142 of Wildest Dreams

The word boomed so loudly it filled the car, the neighborhood, the fucking universe. Tate’s private driver flinched, the car veering sharply to the side before righting itself back on the road.

I sank my fingers into my thigh to stop myself from screaming, bile hitting the back of my throat. That visceral reaction was partly due to the fact that I knew Dylan was now in bad shape and partly, I realized to my horror, because I’d grown to care deeply about the little stinker.

“What do you mean, kidnapped?” I rumbled.

“He, he, he, he…” Cal stuttered, hyperventilating, her breaths shallow and fast and out of rhythm, wheezing each time she tried to suck in oxygen. “He just showed up. I-I-I thought it was you. I thought you came back and knew you had a key.”

The background noise was unmistakably a busy Manhattan street. People conversing, laughing, drinking, and cars honking. She was walking around aimlessly. Not a good sign.

“He barged in. I tried to fight him. I tried to push him. I swear, Rhyland, I tried everything. I nicked his cheek, but it only made him angrier. He rattled off about no one being willing to help him. About Dylan being a frigid bitch and Row always looking down on him, even when they were together. Just…nonsense. Insane stuff. And then he took her. And when I tried to stop him, he…”

Silence.

All my blood rushed to my head, making me dizzy.

“He what?” I demanded.

Silence.

“He what?” I barked louder.

“I think he broke my arm,” Cal finished, brittle.

I closed my eyes. “Do you know where he went?”

“No.”

“Did you call the police?”

“Yes. And Row too. Dylan knows. She’s on her way back. I’m just walking aimlessly, looking for him… He couldn’t have gone far, could he?”

“You need to get medical attention.”

“No. I won’t. I can’t.” Her voice was high-pitched, emotions flooding it again. She burst into a sob. “This all happened because of me. I need to fix this. Oh my God, poor Grav. What is he doing to her? And Dylan. She must be hysterical.”

Dylan, Dylan, Dylan.

What was she thinking right now?

What was she going through?

How the hell did I fix this?

And then I knew. All of a sudden, I remembered.

Because I was a possessive piece of shit.

Because I craved control.

Because I was naturally suspicious and cunning and—well, yes, a bit of a bad guy, really.

I did something I shouldn’t have. But it just might pay off.

“Cal?”

“Yes?”

“Go to the hospital. I got it.”

---