“They want her blade. They want her hands. They are in her brain and her mind and her brain. They toy with her, wind wind wind, chatter chatter chatter.”
My heart pounded so hard and fast, I feared it would break through my chest. Rage and need collided; two powerful tidal waves smashing into each other, rocking the entire ocean.
Miranda came into view, throwing a terror-stricken glance over her shoulder. She was being chased. A bright blazing heat followed her. She was going to burn. Like I did. My throat turned dry.
Then she blipped out of existence. She’d been taken. I cried out in rage. I had to get her. Had to get her back.
An oak door appeared before me.
She was through the door. I had to break it to get her. I’d break everything and everyone to get to her.
My foot kicked into the wood, and it crashed open.
“Miranda,” I roared, slamming the door open. I had to find her. I had to find who took her. If they so much as frayed one of her braids, I would rip their eyeballs out and eat them.
A voice broke through my insanity. “Xander?”
All my broken pieces slammed together, yanking me into the present, grounding me in reality. And I found myself inside a house I didn’t recognize, facing a completely shocked Miranda.
ChapterThirty-One
THE BADASS
Iblinked.
This wasn’t my cage.
This was a house. I was outside in the real world. The air was different. There was so much of it, and it blew all over the world before ruffling my hair up off my forehead.
Miranda's house emanated a comforting blend of practicality and warmth, its earthy tones and inviting furnishings creating an inviting atmosphere. Framed photographs of her son, Jamal, adorned the walls, capturing his radiant smile that radiated joy and innocence. While his eyes and mouth mirrored Miranda's, the distinct features of a wide nose bridge and darker skin tone clearly bore resemblance to the man depicted in the well-framed, official army photo—his father.
I blinked.
What the fuck had I done?
Miranda stood halfway between the kitchen and the living room of her house. She wore purple sweat pants and a black tank top. The coffee table was littered with used tissues, and it looked like she’d made a cocoon of blankets around her on the couch earlier and could return to the same spot later. Half empty mugs also covered the table, while the television flickered colorful light into the room. The sound of rushing water from a faucet filtered in from another room.
Miranda stared at me wide-eyed.
“You’re okay,” was all I could manage to say.
Her brows furrowed, as if she couldn’t understand how I stood inside her house.
I didn’t understand either. But I was here.
“You didn’t come to kill me,” I explained lamely.
She started to say something but was overtaken by a sneeze. Grabbing first one, then two tissues, she blew her nose. When she got hold of her sneezing, she answered in a nasal, congested voice. “I have a cold, so I called into work.”
For fucks sake.
“No one told me.” My tone was defensive. Suddenly I felt foolish standing there at her threshold.
“You left your cage?” she asked, jaw still hanging in disbelief.
“Yes, well. I thought something had happened to you.”
She shot a look over my shoulder. It was then I realized I left the door open. It barely hung from one of its hinges. I closed it as best I could, not entirely sure I was on the right side of it.
