Page 2 of Betrayed
After he handed me the fob, I kissed him goodbye. Mack drove me, Cass, and Ryan home. They chatted the entire way. Ryan wondered why Falcon didn’t have sheep like the ‘old men in England.’
I was left in the passenger seat with my hand in the pocket of the coat he bought me, clutching his gift.
Lost in thought.
I stand before the school a few seconds too long, the flow of kids now a trickle, fingers curled around the metal keychain and plastic fob in my coat pocket. The circle is smooth and hard, a silent weight pressing against my palm.
Lucian’s symbol of protection. Of possession. Of control.
A control I’ve grown to crave like air filling my lungs.
The man doesn’t give away trust. He gives orders—ones that center me, ground me, and help me breathe again.
Then he gave me this, and I haven’t seen him since. Not since he looked at me like I was something worth saving—and it scared me more than anything.
I start walking back to the apartment, gripping the fob tighter. I half expect him to appear beside me, all gravel voice and cold eyes, demanding to know why I haven’t used it, visited him, or responded to his calls.
I imagine that night in the garage, tied up and breathless, and freer than I’ve ever been before. Him, demanding that I share all my secrets, bare my soul to him as he bared my skin.
And I want to. I want to tell him everything. I want to let him make it all better.
But I can’t take more from him than I already have. I’m not good for him.
And he’s not here.
I wish he were.
I wish I didn’t.
Wish I didn’t ache for him with every breath. Didn’t wake to his face in my mind, falling asleep playing his touches over like a film.
I wish I didn’t need him so badly. For both our sakes.
It would make what I have to do much easier.
CHAPTER TWO
Erin
The common area of our brick apartment building welcomes me home with a wide patch of soft green grass dotted with simple benches and shaded by a couple of old, sturdy trees, the city a distant hum. It’s one of the reasons we picked this place.
That, and the wheelchair-accessible first-floor apartment with three bedrooms.
Smiling, I wave to a few new neighbors as I turn the corner to our place. I stop in my tracks, key in hand. The door to our place is ajar.
It shouldn’t be.
It never is.
We always lock up. Always. Deadbolt. And that door doesn’t open unless we hear the secret knock or call one another to announce our arrival.
My heart lurches as I push the door open slowly. “Cass?”
No answer.
The scent hits me first, bitter and metallic. As sharp in my memory of that day as it is now.
Fresh blood.
