Page 30 of Chasing the Wild
“Go to bed, Layla.”
There’s a warning in his voice that makes me shudder, like he can’t be held accountable for what might happen if I don’t obey his order.
And his words echo after me, long after I’ve retreated down the hall. Long after I’ve closed my bedroom door with my heart in my mouth and my Kindle clutched to my chest.
His burning stare is still imprinted on my skin as I lean heavily against the doorway, panting into the darkness. When I squeeze my eyes shut, I wish it was his hands and body on me instead of just his gaze.
I’d give anything for it to be so much more.
Chapter 9
There’s a satisfying thunk and splintering noise as I bring the ax head down.
Sweat beads at my temples, even though it’s below freezing, and I haul the next log to be split onto the block in front of me.
I’ve been at this for an hour. Nightfall is closing in, and the longer I spend here, the closer it inches toward another endless, cold night. Each time the wood gives way below the metal head, I can’t help but picture it being that fucker Pierson’s neck.
God-fucking-damnit, now that one of them knows Layla is here, I’m going to have them both sniffing around whenever they think I’ve turned my back.
Men who like to use their good looks to prey on unsuspecting victims. There’s more than enough evidence of the sick shit they do to women unlucky enough to fall into their grasp. Yet, the Pierson brothers have never been charged.
The thought that he’d dared set foot up here on the fucking pretense of a welfare check makes my blood boil. What’s worse is that I know he’ll be back, and there’s nothing I can do when those two sick fucks are so deeply embedded in every part ofCrimson Ridge, pretending to be good people, like a cancer on this fucking community.
Just like he was.
Maybe Hayes was right. Maybe I should report them for the shit they’ve been responsible for up here over the years. The kinds of issues, damage, and spates of vandalism that I’ve never been able to confidently prove who was responsible for over the years, but I’ve always known it was Henrik and Alton Pierson.
Yet, even though I’ve known… guilt has stopped me from ever seeing it through and finally doing something about it. My connection to them makes it all so goddamn complicated.
All I want to do is make amends for my grandfather’s sins, but these assholes make it impossible to do so, or to move on.
I bring the ax down again and the two bits of wood fly in opposite directions, before I bend down and toss them over onto the stack beside me that has grown much larger than I need it to be today.
Part of me knows I’m hiding out here.
The worst part of me nearly wrestled free of its leash last night.
Seeing her walk in wearing next to nothing was a temptation I nearly gave into. With her curves and smooth skin and wide green eyes looking back at me as if she fucking liked what she saw. The girl doesn’t know shit about me. If she did, Layla would run a mile and I’d never see another glimpse of her silky head of hair ever again.
There’s a reason I’ve been stuck on this mountain for years on my own.
Women I come across enjoy a fuck, an orgasm, and then they move on with their lives. They take one look after the glow has worn off from the sex and decide they want more than to be stuck with someone like me.
I don’t blame them.
Just as I place the next round of wood in front of me and swing the ax in the air, I hear it.
A shout.Layla.
“Colt.” Her voice is high-pitched. Frightened.
The ax clatters to the ground as I grab my jacket and head in the direction of her voice.
“Colt.” She’s yelling louder, swinging off the back of Peaches as I round the corner of the barn.
“Layla?” I shrug my jacket on, and my eyes are all over her, looking for injury. Her eyes are hanging out of her head, but she’s moving ok, rushing toward me. That’s when I notice the blood on her hands.
“Where are you hurt?” My instinct is to grab her face, but I stop myself, instead I grip Layla’s shoulders as soon as I’m next to her.
