Page 73 of Hate Mates

My wrists throb. “Untie me, please.”

Blaze hesitates, his gaze flicking from my wrists to my face. For a moment, I think he’ll refuse, keep me bound just to assert his control.

But he sighs. “Fine. But don’t try anything stupid.”

His fingers brush against my skin as he works at the knots. I hate how my body craves the touch even as my mind screams in protest.

The ropes fall away, and I rub my wrists, wincing at the raw skin. Blaze watches me, his expression guarded.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

He nods. “We need a plan.”

“No shit.” I roll my shoulders, stiff from being tied for so long. “And I need to know how my father is.”

Blaze runs a hand through his golden hair. “Vina, you heard Iron. We can’t go back.”

I whirl on him. “I don’t fucking care about the danger. That’s my father, my club. Unlike you, I’m a patched member, and I need to be there.”

He grabs my arm in a firm grip. “What good will you be to them dead?”

I suck in a breath but have no words to argue that.

“Someone is framing us,” says Blaze. “We need to lay low.”

I jerk out of his grasp. He’s right, damn him. As much as it kills me to admit it, we can’t just ride back into town. Not when someone had already tried to blow us sky high at the gas station.

We did need a plan.

I stop pacing and face him. “Fine. We do this your way for now. But I have conditions.”

Blaze raises an eyebrow. “Of course you do.”

I ignore the jab. “First, I get to call my mom when we get to the Westend.”

Thinning his lips, Blaze gives a single nod.

“Then, we need disguises. We’ll be heading back to Crown City before long, and if we are being framed, we can’t look like ourselves. And finally…” I gulp a breath, needing to know if my father is okay. “I need to call my mom.”

Blaze is silent for a moment. Conflict rolls through his eyes, warring emotions. After an extended pause, he lets out a sigh and marches for the door. “Alright. Let’s go.”

Chapter Two

The rotary dial clicks and whirs as it returns to the starting position.

Ring.

My stomach churns like angry hornets, and I mutter, “C’mon Mom, pick up the phone.”

The Westend Motel sign flickers and buzzes outside, bleeding neon red into the room. What a shithole. But it’s Iron’s safehouse and the best option we have.

I glance at the pathetic disguise Blaze bought—an old baseball cap, a bandana, and some scissors. Like that’s really going to make me unrecognizable.

Ring... Ring...

My leg bounces restlessly. Water runs in the bathroom where Blaze is cleaning up.

A click replaces the ring, followed by a groggy “’ello?”

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