Page 21 of The Hitman's Forbidden Obsession

Dante

Victoria’s glare is venomous, but I don’t flinch. I meet it with the same cold fury, the kind that burns quiet and deep, the kind that doesn’t lash out until it’s already too late. The air between us crackles. I could choke on the tension.

But before either of us can speak again, the kitchen door swings open hard enough to rattle the frame. Graham barrels in, breath short, face lined with panic.

“What the hell is going on?” he demands. “Avery came to help you two, and then she just left the house in tears. She wouldn’t even speak to me. So what happened?”

My stomach drops like I’ve taken a bullet.

She heard.

Panic seizes my chest with iron claws, and my heartbeat turns to thunder. Shit. She must have heard everything.

I need to move fast. There’s no time for explanations. No time for anything but getting to my angel.

“Ask your wife,” I snap, slicing a look toward Victoria that’s all venom and malice.

Victoria shifts, blocking the path between me and the door like she’s considering stopping me. She doesn’t know me well enough to realize what a huge mistake that is.

I hold out my hand. “Give me your car keys. We came in Avery’s car tonight, so I need to borrow yours.”

She hesitates.

My gaze darkens and I take one step forward. Just one.

Victoria stiffens. My message is clear: Try me, and you’ll regret it. Graham takes a step forward, too, and I have to respect him for that. He’s just as willing to protect his woman as I am mine, even if his woman is a disgusting excuse for a human being. But that’s not his fault.

“It’s fine,” she says to Graham as she drops the keys into my palm.

I don’t say another word. I’m out the door in seconds, the echo of Graham’s voice behind me rising in demand as the front door slams shut.

The second I get behind the wheel, I yank my phone from my jacket and open the app. A little black icon, hidden behind a folder labeled “Documents.” Not for spying. For safety.

I’d synced it to Avery’s phone the first night she stayed at my place, so that if we ever did get separated for any reason, then I’d be able to find her. And right now, I’m so fucking glad I did.

The tracker kicks in and a dot glows on the screen. It’s moving.

I peel out of the driveway fast enough to make the tires scream. Headlights slash through the dark. My focus tunnels. All I’m aware of is the dot on the screen, the trembling steering wheel beneath my hands, and the raw prayer screaming through my skull:

Please let her be okay. Let her forgive me. Let me make this right.

After driving for several minutes, she stops moving.

The address loads, and it’s some seedy, grimy roadside motel on the outskirts of town. One of those places where the neon “vacancy” sign is half-lit and flickering, and the walls are thin enough to bleed regret through the drywall.

Fuck.

My blood surges hot and fast. My girl, my sweet angel, went to a dirty, run-down motel? Alone? God knows what kind of people hang around places like that. Just the thought of her spending the night behind one of those rotting doors, terrified and crying, makes me want to tear the world apart.

I push the pedal down harder, suddenly even more desperate to get to her.

My tires screech as I skid to a stop in the parking lot. The smell of smoke and alcohol and despair hits me as soon as I open the door. I slam it behind me, stalking past the line of broken-down cars toward the room at the end.

Her car is parked in the corner.

I rap sharply on the door, jaw tight. “Avery?”

Silence.

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