Page 83 of Life Or Death

“Okay, well, I have to get Poppy from school in an hour.” She lays a hand on my knee, her fingers warm through the fabric of the sweatpants. “I just thought you should know that Lucifer keeps calling my phone.”

My head snaps toward her. “You spoke to him?”

“No.” She gives my knee a gentle squeeze. “But I think you should talk to him. He’s not the type of man who takes kindly to being ignored.”

She’s right, but I’m not ready to talk to him. Tori must see the conflict on my face because she pats my knee one more time and pushes off the couch. “I’m going to get dressed.”

She disappears down the hallway, and I’m left alone with my sandwich and my thoughts. Twenty minutes later, she emerges in jeans and a flannel, her hair pulled into a messy bun, her keys jingling in her hand.

“I’ll be back in an hour,” she said.

I nod, and she’s gone, the front door clicking shut behind her.

The apartment falls silent. I reach for my phone on the end table. It’s been off since I left the clubhouse, and I power it on now, watching the screen light up. A string of notifications flood in—missed calls, voicemails, text messages. All from Lucifer.

I don’t open any of them.

Instead, I pull up my contacts and find the number for Dr. Patel’s office. I have an appointment scheduled for next week, and I want to move it up. Hopefully, I’ll get good news that I don’t need any more reconstructive surgeries. If that’s the case, we can end this sham of a marriage and go our separate ways. I won’t be indebted to the man I fell in love with, and he can go back to fucking his saddle bunnies guilt-free.

I dial, and a receptionist answers on the third ring.

“This is Jessica Holland,” I say, hoarsely. “I have an appointment scheduled for next Tuesday, but I was wondering if there’s any way I can move it up. This week, if possible.”

She puts me on hold, then two minutes later she comes back on the line.

“We actually had a cancellation for Thursday at two. Does that work for you?”

“Thursday is perfect. Thank you.”

I end the call and set the phone on my lap. My thumb hovers over the screen, and before I can talk myself out of it, I open the browser and search how to file for divorce.

The results load instantly—legal aid websites, family law attorneys, step-by-step guides for filing without a lawyer. I click on one and start reading, my eyes scanning the text without really absorbing any of it. The process seems straightforward enough. File a petition. Serve the other party. Wait sixty days. Attend a hearing. Get a decree.

Sixty days.

That seems excessive for a marriage that was never meant to last. I wonder if we can forge all of that too.

My throat tightens, and I blink rapidly, refusing to let the tears fall. I’m about to click on another link when a sound cuts through the silence of the apartment.

The front door rattles in its frame as someone bangs their fist against it, and I jerk upright on the couch, my phone tumbling from my lap.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“Open the fucking door, Jess.”

My stomach sinks at the sound of Lucifer’s voice. But then another ferocious bang sounds, and my legs are moving before my brain gives the command. I cross the living room on shaky legs, my heart slamming against my ribs so hard I could feel it in my throat. My hand finds the doorknob, and I turn it, pulling the door open.

Lucifer fills the doorway. Two days of dark stubble covers his jaw, and his eyes are wild—bloodshot, ringed with shadows, burning with something that makes my pulse hammer. His cut is dusty, his boots caked with dried mud, and there’s a streak of something dark on his forearm that I’m pretty sure is blood.

He looks like a man who’s been through a war and is about to start another one.

“Your phone fucking broken?” he growls, his gaze raking over me from head to toe. Taking in the sweatpants, the oversized T-shirt, the tangled mess of my hair, the dark circles under my eyes. His jaw tightens, and something flashes across his face—anger, concern, possession—I can’t tell which.

“Lucifer—”

He steps inside, and the door slams shut behind him.

“Homeboy said Ginger got to you.”