Page 41 of Corpse Roads

My phone vibrates in my pocket as I step inside the house.

Brooklyn: Saw you running just now. Talk to me, big guy.

Enzo: Stuff on my mind. Call you later.

Brooklyn: You better. Don’t make me come over there.

Tucking my phone away, I bypass the kitchen, needing to shower before dealing with Leighton’s attitude. Under the spray, I set the temperature to cold.

It’s a trick I’ve learned over the years. I’ve barely slept since Harlow came home with us. Her presence has me on high alert for any potential threats, even when I should be asleep.

In the privacy of my shower, she floats back into my mind. That tiny spitfire is never far from my thoughts at the moment. Her crystal-clear, innocent eyes, and the small curves that round her body.

I should be fucking ashamed as I wrap my hand around my cock. Head lowered beneath the spray, I work my shaft in fast pumps. All I can think about is the feel of her gripping my wrist earlier.

She’s so small and delicate, even for a twenty-odd year old. I’d break her if I touched her. But that doesn’t stop me from fantasising about a world where I could cross the professional boundary between us.

When I’ve grunted my release, I wash off and step out of the shower. Guilt twists in my gut. The last thing Harlow needs is me fucking up her life. She’s facing enough shit as it is.

Scraping a hand through my wet hair, I bypass my work clothes and throw on a pair of ripped, black jeans with a plain tee. Hunter can take care of Sabre alone today; I’ve had enough of his foul mood.

My priority is Harlow. I won’t leave her alone in a world that she has no knowledge of. Fuck the rules. Someone has to look after her. Why shouldn’t that be me? I can keep things professional.

Lightly knocking on her bedroom door, I peek inside. Her bed has been neatly made and lies empty. She was still in the shower when I left to go running.

Heading downstairs, I find Leighton bustling around the kitchen. He’s washing up empty bowls while cursing to himself, the ceramics clattering as they’re tossed about.

“Are you cleaning?” I watch in disbelief.

He casts me a glare. “I’m not some uncivilised caveman.”

“Isn’t that what people go to prison to become?”

“Ha ha, fucking hilarious. Hunter upset your girlfriend.”

“She’s a client, not my girlfriend.”

“Whatever, man. She’s refusing to come out or speak to me, so I’m trying to do something useful here instead.”

“Why didn’t you call me?”

Leighton tosses the tea towel down with exasperation. “Not everything is my fault, you know? Fuck this. I’ll be upstairs.”

Leaving him to continue pouting, I tear through the house. Hunter’s book-lined office is deserted, along with the formal dining room that we don’t use, and the downstairs gym.

When I attempt to open the sliding door that leads into the den at the back of the house, it refuses to budge. Something’s barricading it.

“Harlow? It’s me. Can you let me in?”

“Go away, Enzo,” her timid voice replies.

“Not a chance. You have ten seconds to open this door before I break it down.”

After five seconds, my very limited patience expires. The chair she had propped under the handle splinters as I use my shoulder to smash the door open by force. It falls off its hinges with a pained groan.

Shoving the destroyed door aside, I squint to see into the pitch-black room. The navy-blue curtains are drawn against the rainy day, adding to the darkness. This room is where we spend most of our time together, limited as that may be these days.

It’s a generous family space, lined with stained black flooring and light, panelled walls. There’s a huge log burner in the centre of the room, surrounded by perfectly cut wooden logs packed into the sides of the fireplace.

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