Page 99 of Stalked
“FUCK!” I punch the wall, denting the drywall.
I pull out my phone with shaking hands and call her number. It rings and rings before going to voicemail.
“Lia, whatever you saw—” I stop, take a breath. “Just come home. Please. We can talk about this.”
I end the call and look around our apartment. Her purse is gone, but her clothes still hang in the closet. Her toothbrush remains in the bathroom. The book she's reading sits on her nightstand, bookmark still in place.
The déjà vu hits me like a physical blow. I'm eighteen again, standing in an empty bus station, realizing she's gone without saying goodbye.
39
LIA
The highway stretches before me, an endless ribbon of asphalt guiding me away from Ravenwood—away from him. My knuckles are white on the steering wheel as I've been driving for hours, pushing south toward Florida. My parents' house. A sanctuary I didn't even warn them I'm seeking.
I haven't called anyone. My phone's been buzzing in the passenger seat, Vane's name flashing over and over until I finally switched it to silent. What would I even say?
I'm in love with a murderer.
I promised myself I wouldn't run this time. Swore I'd face whatever secrets Vane was hiding, no matter the cost. But witnessing him torture that man—seeing the satisfaction in his eyes as he wielded those pliers—shattered every wall I'd built around my feelings for him. My body moved without conscious thought, fleeing before my mind could catch up and remind me that running never solved anything.
Old habits. Old fears. The same cowardice that sent me to that bus station fifteen years ago.
The image of Orlov's bloody face won't leave my mind. The calculating coldness in Vane's eyes as he sliced into humanflesh. The way his voice remained so calm, almost pleased, while inflicting unimaginable pain was disturbing.
My stomach lurches again, and I pull onto the shoulder, throwing open the door just in time to vomit onto the gravel. It's the third time since I fled the warehouse.
“How could you?” I whisper, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “How could you become this?
I remember eighteen-year-old Vane, hunched over our AP Chemistry lab table, explaining molecular bonds with such clarity that even our teacher was impressed. The boy with a quick wit and a quicker mind. The boy whose intelligence intimidated me even as it drew me in.
That boy had potential. That boy could have been anything.
But that boy is gone, replaced by a monster who tortures people in warehouses. Who cuts off ears with the same hands that so tenderly held my face this morning?
And I still love him.
That's the worst part—the part I can't reconcile. Even after witnessing the horror of what he's become, something in me still aches for him. It's like a sickness, this love, wrapping around my heart like a parasite.
I pull back onto the highway, wiping at tears I didn't realize were falling. Florida is still hours away.
The miles blur together as I press harder on the gas pedal. My mind keeps replaying what I saw—Vane's steady hand gripping those pliers, the sound of Orlov's screams, the blood. So much blood.
I always knew the Blackwoods operated in gray areas. You don't become Ravenwood's most powerful family by following all the rules. I'd imagined tax evasion, maybe some bribery, perhaps even blackmail. The kind of white-collar crime that keeps the wheels of power turning in small towns.
But torture? Murder?
My stomach churns again, but there's nothing left to expel. Just acid burning my throat like the bitter truth burning through my illusions.
“What did you think, Lia?” I whisper to myself, my voice hollow in the empty car. “That he ran an empire on handshakes and stern looks?”
I switch lanes mechanically, barely registering the road signs. How could I have been so blind? Or worse—had I deliberately kept myself blind? Had I chosen not to question where his money came from? Had I willfully ignored the sudden hushed conversations when I entered rooms?
The Vane I thought I knew—the possessive, obsessive man who orchestrated my return to Ravenwood—was troubling enough. But this Vane, with blood under his fingernails and death in his casual conversation, is someone I never prepared myself to love.
I can't go back. I can't be the woman who shares his bed knowing what those hands have done. I can't be complicit in a life built on others' suffering, no matter how much my treacherous heart protests.
My eyelids grow heavy as I pass through another small town I don't bother to name. The white lines on the highway have begun to blur, and twice now I've caught myself drifting into the next lane. The adrenaline that fueled my escape has long since faded, leaving bone-deep exhaustion in its wake.
