Page 4 of When Hearts Unravel

Olivia never bought it though. There were always disdain and pity when she looked at me. And the occasional, “You need help,” she’d mutter when she brushed past me.

My fingers press against the cool glass and I’m hit with an irrational urge to race down there and drag her kicking and screaming out of my den of sin. Then I’ll throw her back into her small, organized office, where she can treat her precious broken toys and ticking time bombs within the safety of four walls.

Or perhaps I’ll tug that hair out of her neat little bun and mess it up.

As if she heard my thoughts, she whips her head up and stares at me.

Those bottomless dark eyes. The flawless ivory skin. The unblemished white dress.

If she wants ticking time bombs, I’ll show her one.

The dark desire rocks my mind. I’ve felt it before whenever I see her from a distance, all prim and proper with my sisters. But it’s never been this intense, this visceral.

My pulse riots and lungs constrict, and even though I know she can’t see me, I canfeelher seeing right through me.

It makes no fucking sense. I think back to the blackouts happening more frequently now.

I’m definitely going out of my mind.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Sweat beads on my skin and I yank my tie loose and unbutton my collar. I run my fingers through my hair, disheveling it because that’s what the public expects from me.

I blink, and Olivia disappears from view. Did I imagine it all? Is this another symptom?

When is the damn Velowake going to kick in and put me out of my misery?

A minute later, my heart skips a telltale beat. Then another. It scatters to the thumps of the music—a car careening down a steep hill at a hundred miles per hour.

My lungs rake in a ragged inhale, the sudden oxygen waking my senses.

I smile.

There it is…the rush from Velowake—a brutal cocktail of synthetic caffeine analogs, adrenal regulators, and REMorphin, a compound designed to short-circuit dreams before they started.

No more nightmares. No more thoughts. No more feelings.

I’m Rex Anderson, the man who doesn’t take life seriously.I don’t feel. I only have fun.

I’m the party prince—peak confidence, alpha energy, sex god.

I don’t feel. I only have fun.

Slowly, I straighten, wipe the sweat from my forehead, and check my appearance in the mirror. I watch in detached fascination as my lips twist into the usual charming grin, my toothpaste commercial worthy smile bright.

Ignoring the chaotic clattering of my heart, I grab my phone and leave the office.

I have a party to attend and a crowd to win over.

Chapter Two

“Do you have enoughrefills?” I glance up from my laptop after typing session notes as my quarterly appointment with Maxwell ends.

“I’m good.” He nods, his lips hitched in a barely there smile. The oldest of the seven Anderson siblings is a hard nut to crack.

“You sure? You were low on your Ativan last time.” I cock my brow and level my stare at him.

Patients against therapy and medication like to feed me nonsense. Men, powerful men especially, think they’re stronger by not taking medicine.