Page 11 of Tied in Knots
She whimpers and slips away before I can reach her.
“Move!” I roar at the group of youngsters taking up the entire pavement and trailing along like they have all fucking day.
I ignore their pissed off shouts as I barge past them rudely.
“Fuck!” I shout out, when I lose her again. “How? How are you escaping me?”
She isn’t going to make this easy.
But there again, who said easy was the preferred option?
Having her slip through my fingers again has brought out the true alpha in me. The one that deals solely in primal instinct. The one that Xander allows to rule, but I try to control for the good of the pack.
It flicks a switch in me.
Before I wanted to reach her, explain, and while she has no choice in returning to the Manor with us, I wanted her to want it. Now, I don’t give a fuck. I will hunt her to the ends of the earth and take her by force with no words, hoping that her fear overwhelms her. Her fear will allow us to find her more easily. She is our prey, and nothing will stop us from hunting her down and taking her.
“You want a chase, Strawberries, you’ve got one.”
ChapterEight
Faith
Just keep moving.
There is nothing else for it. They’ve split up. I’ve spotted the two who grabbed me, but at separate times. I only caught a quick glance at the other two when I looked back over my shoulder, but I think I can recognise them. I hope so, anyway.
Pete must’ve sent them. There’s no other explanation.
I can’t even stop to think about how absurd that really is. But it’s the only thing I can think of, and over my dead body am I being dragged back there to be sold like a slave to do God knows what, with God knows who.
No, thank you.
Ducking up an alley, the rain starts to fall. It’s not just any rain either. It’s a torrential downpour and I’m soaked within seconds. My coat is plastered to me, wet through. Wiping the raindrops from my face like tears, I try not to give in to the fear, the vulnerability this chase has cast over me.
It’s not fair.
I have always tried to be good. I haven’t done anything to deserve this.
My breath hitches and just as I’m about to crawl into a corner and cry my eyes out, I spot a door to a dingy pub. I aim for it. As I approach, a man stumbles out, drunk and wobbling all over. He pulls out a cigarette and lights it. His eyes are unfocused as I brush past him, scraping my backpack on the doorframe, causing me to stumble as I enter the pub. He blows a stream of smoke at me, and I wince.
It’s busy inside, which surprises me. For a crappy, old-fashioned pub, it is packed to the rafters.
I dodge the swaying, beer drinking men and wine swilling women. When a loud, pretty bad rendition ofThe Wild Rovererupts from the crowd over the jukebox, I figure this is an Irish wake of some kind. It brings hot tears to my eyes, to be reminded of my dad. He wanted me to learn about his Irish heritage, but I couldn’t be bothered at the time. Now, I wish I had.
I avoid eye contact, keeping my head low as I make my way into the ladies’ toilets. Shoving open the door and letting it swing shut behind me, it blocks out the rowdy noise from the pub and I sigh in relief. I crinkle my nose up at the smell, but then ignore it.
Pushing back my hood, I look at my reflection in the dirty, cracked mirror under the bare yellow bulb and cringe.
Slipping into a cubicle and sliding the loose bolt across, I lean against the door and pull my phone out to see if Derek has messaged.
Nothing.
I ring him, but it only goes to voicemail.
I try again, and then a third time.
“Shit, Derek. Answer the phone, you fucker,” I whisper and then slam my lips shut as the door opens and the noise from the pub spills in. Moving quietly away from the door, my heart hammering, my palms sweating, I barely breathe when the door of the cubicle next to me crashes against the dividing wall.
