Page 149 of Lethal King

I actually like the fucker.

It’s like he’s managed to crack the cold shield around my heart. It’s made me vulnerable. Weak. Stupid.

Afraid.

Shit.

Maybe I’m starting to do more than just like him…

A deep sigh escapes my lips as I remember what Rian said.

That he was lucky to have me.

Lucky.

To have me?

That doesn’t sound like the kind of thing a hunter says about his prey, or a captor to his captive.

Not even I’ve ever felt lucky to have me before.

But when Rian said that, I lost control. My guard dropped, and I think my problem is that I haven’t put those walls back up around my heart. Not yet. I just haven’t had the chance.

And now I’m all worried about Babcia too…

Fuck. This past year has been a mess. The wall around my heart must have been thicker than I thought, because I haven’t felt anything that sharp since Gabriel left us. And even then, I did all I could to ignore the pain. I went on the attack.

But now, it feels like I’m on the defense, protecting myself against a man who makes me feel like opening up—if even only just an inch.

He opened up to me…

“Babcia!?” I cry out. Trying to ignore my newfound vulnerability, I start speed-walking through the cottage.

The longer I go without finding Babcia, the heavier my dread grows.

Stupid old woman, where are you? Don’t you know how worried I get?

For a second there, I really thought I might find the kindly old lady’s head in the cupboard. But who would have done that? No one knows who she is. And even if they did, how would they have found her?

Only Tytus and I know about Babcia.

She’s nothing special. No one of note. Just our adopted grandma.

But her irrelevance doesn’t matter. She means something to me. And I’m nearly pulling my hair out when I return to the kitchen after searching every last inch of the cottage. There’s no sign of a struggle. No sign that something went wrong.

There’s no Babcia.

I want to call out for her again, but emotion clogs my throat, silencing me.

Get yourself together, Roz! The devil on my shoulder screeches. You’ve been through worse before.

That’s no lie. But I also promised myself I would never care enough to be hurt so badly again.

Yet here I am, slouched against Babcia’s kitchen counter, on the verge of tears. I’m getting weak. And there’s nothing I can do about it.

What is wrong with me?

Before I can sink too low, I feel a warm presence brush against my shoulder.