Page 56 of Her Filthy Reverse Harem Romance Collection

He, Drake, and Sylan all stirred up unwanted emotions inside me. And when the darkest of night comes, their faces drift through my dreams. But when morning comes, I find I’m still alone. Cold. With no place in this world. No one to call.

It’s just the way it is.

I’ve worked a double shift for the past five days and my throbbing, aching feet are letting me know I’ve reached my limit, but I shove down the pain and push on. I can’t afford not to. I grit my teeth past the stabbing pain in my heels and screaming calves and shove aside the fact I’m three days late on rent again. This time I might not have a home to return to even if I do manage to make the last four dollars in tips I need.

I rub at the spot between my brows, trying to ward off a coming headache but it’s not working. God, what I’d do for a solid straight eight hours of sleep, but I would have better luck spotting a freaking unicorn running down Main Street right now.

“Kat, you’re up.”

The cook bellows my name through the small portal window where they place the trays for me to deliver, and I push off the wall I’ve been leaning against for the past few minutes watching the news. I take the plates and pass them out, welcoming another diner pushing through the door and grabbing the closest booth. “What can I get you tonight?”

He says something, but I don’t hear his reply. My mind is too busy trying to catch up with what I hear coming from the TV.

With my mouth wide open, I stare across the half-empty tables and booths as the news anchor’s face cuts to a picture of a man in a black suit with a familiar set of whiskey-colored eyes.

“Son of a bitch. You finally went too far.” I can’t believe it.

“Excuse me?” the newcomer gruffs but quickly follows my line of sight and shuts up.

I wave him off and we both watch as my father’s face is plastered across the evening news.

I might have told him to screw off all those months ago like some cold bitch, but my very human heart lurches to the floor by my feet among the crumbs and crumpled napkins.

Someone cranks the volume up a few notches.

“In a shocking twist this evening, the known head of an organized crime family William Kane has been found shot to death in his home. Officials have ruled out suicide and are currently investigating what they believe is murder. Once thought untouchable, Kane has reportedly been in talks with the FBI. No further information is known. Maybe in death the truth about his dealings and true ties to crime will finally come to light. He’s survived by one daughter. Her whereabouts are still unknown by authorities… In other news—”

Dead.

Chills run through me.

My father is dead. I knew it would only be a matter of time but...dead.

There’s no one else now.

I stare at the TV anchor who delivers the news with the practiced matter-of-fact coldness her job requires, but the words sting all the same. Just as the TV screen switches to a reel of my father sitting with several government officials at some country club for aristocrats, I see an even more shocking image.

A younger version of myself fills the TV screen.

Oh, shit.

I clamp a hand over my mouth and hold back a groan of frustration, pain, anger. An internal Molotov cocktail of all the above ready to explode inside me.

I look back at the TV. That day I had fire in my eyes and determination spiked through my spine.

But tonight, I just feel tired and scared that someone will recognize me. My eyes dart around but no one is looking at the nobody waitress in her mustard-colored uniform.

Thank God.

The headache I hoped would wait until I clocked out thunders through my brain and bounces off the side of my head, causing tears to sting my eyes. Why? I don’t know, it’s not like he cared about me, but I can’t help the sudden rush of utter despair.

Someone changes the channel and slowly, I can feel the diner’s eyes peel from the screen to land on me, but I don’t make eye contact. I can’t. Hiding among the masses of people and blending in is my specialty.

I shove my pad and pen into my apron pocket, wondering how fast I can make a run for the door. The last thing I need is someone to recognize me and call the authorities thinking they’re “doing the right thing.”

Ice runs through my veins about as fast as molasses uphill, and my thoughts jumble in a tangle of knots as each one freezes. I shove my hands into my apron pocket and tighten my fingers around my pen and notepad, trying to refocus my eyes. A full-body numbness takes over until I can’t feel the paper in my hands or the pain of losing my last parent, bastard or not.

And what that means for me. I’ll need to pack, leave. Maybe New York this time. I didn’t nearly put enough distance between them and me. Hide under their noses, right? Maybe I’d been wrong. There is nomaybeabout it.

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