Page 101 of Carnival
I pause. “I’m alive.’’
“That’s not an answer, Rosalie.’’
“I’ll be okay. Please, come get me. Vivian put bombs on people.’’
“She what?!”
“I don’t know when she plans to set them off. Please, hurry,’’ I croak out.
The sound of Maverick’s voice calling out my name hits my ears, and I drop the phone, my hand still close to my ear. I’m paralyzed in fear, the reality of the situation dawning on me. Faintly, I hear Arlo’s voice call out from the phone that’s now on the snow, and the girl whose phone I used isn’t impressed.
Before I can think about the next course of action, I start running. Tears roll down my face as the harsh winter wind hits my face. My cheeks redden from the cold, tears drying out quickly.
I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know if Arlo will manage to get here in time. All I know is that I can’t let Maverick get to me. I didn’t think there was any fight left in me, but when I heard his sinister voice, I realized that I can’t just die.
The worry in Arlo’s voice is the reason I’m running.
I have people to live for.
They’re far from perfect, but they’re my family. Noelle’s famous cooking skills and attempts to poison Hudson. AndHudson, who’s always willingly eating whatever his wife serves him, because he lives to serve her.
And Aria.
We might’ve had our fair share of arguments over the years, but when Wyatt took me, she came for me. Her worried expression appears behind my eyes while I’m running through the crowded Carnival, the loud music overlapping with the intense beating of my heart.
I don’t know where this sudden will to live came from, but I’m holding onto it. I’m holding onto the hope that the people that claim to love and care for me will be there to catch me right before I fall.
A scream pierces through my lungs when I feel someone grab my hand, pulling me behind one of the food tents. A hand immediately comes to muffle any sounds that may come from my mouth, and I halt.
A sharp knife is pressed against my throat. It’s right against one of my arteries, and if I were to move a single inch, it’d cut it open, and I’d bleed out right now. My eyes adjust to the poor lighting, then widen in surprise.
The hand slowly moves from my mouth, grabbing both of my wrists together. The grip on my skin is tight, and I don’t dare to move a single inch. I swallow harshly the knot that formed in my throat, blinking the tears away.
The familiar clown mask, with the same crack in the corner and the exact same design. The shade of red and black matches the one I’m used to seeing perfectly, and even the blood drips from it, just the way I’m used to it.
But it’s different.
The man’s shoulders are less broad, and he’s half an inch shorter than James. Their hair color differs by a mere shade, and the eye shape is what does it for me — whoever this is, it’s not James.
“Who are you?” I rasp out, being careful enough not to move too quickly, terrified of the blade pressed against my skin.
The man freezes momentarily, taken off guard that I could tell the difference between him and James. The two don’t smell even remotely close. James’ scent is deep and rich, with something that is uniquely him. This man smells like he poured half a bottle of cologne on himself and called it a day.
A small laugh comes from him, filling my ears. His hand continues to tightly hold my wrists, but he moves the hand off my throat, pocketing the knife. Slowly, his big hand splays over the mask, and with ease, he pulls it off.
“Missed me?”
“Chase,’’ I breathe out, half in relief, half in uncertainty.
“I’m surprised you could tell the difference; I went to great lengths to obtain this,’’ he tosses the mask aside. “Then again, of course you could tell the difference. You’ve been fucking that bastard for years, haven’t you?”
“That’s none of your business.’’ I try to pry my wrists from his grasp, but it’s useless. He’s stronger than me, and isn’t shy in showing it. He leans in closer, carefully looking into my eyes, with something sinister, dark, and menacing lurking behind the stoicism he’s trying to show.
“Mm, but it is my business, sweetheart,’’ he murmurs.
The way he uses the term of endearment makes my stomach churn in disgust. A prickling sensation shoots up my spine.causing me to straighten up. My eyebrows shoot up, drawn together, my mouth going a little dry.
“Why?”
