Page 39 of Carver’s Crusade

Fear crawls cold and sharp up my spine.

Carver reaches for my hand, thumb brushing across my knuckles, and the guilt hits harder. He doesn’t know he’s touching someone who’s already halfway out the door. Because I can’t stay here, I can’t keep pretending that I don’t have a secret. It’s not fair to Carver to put him in this position.

I pull my hand gently from Carver’s and force a small smile.

“Excuse me,” I murmur. “Bathroom.”

Carver’s eyes linger on me, concern etched into the lines around his mouth.

That almost breaks me.

I turn before he can see it.

Instead of heading toward the hallway, I slip through the crowd, past the bar, past the pounding music and flashing lights, until I reach the back door.

Cold night air slams into me the second I step outside. Without looking back, I climb into my car and speed away.

The farther I drive from the clubhouse, the worse I feel.

My hands tighten around the steering wheel as neon lights and storefronts blur past my windows. I shouldn’t have left the way I did. Carver deserves better than me disappearing without a word. The memory of his eyes following me across the clubhouse floor twists painfully in my chest.

I exhale shakily and press harder on the gas.

Leaving was the right decision. It has to be this way. I was too close to spilling the truth. Shield already suspects that I know more than I’m saying. He has to be wondering why I’m hiding information.

Another five minutes and I might’ve confessed. I would have told him everything. I would have told him about why I went after Tony and how Tony is now stalking me. But I wouldn’t have stopped there. I would have told him about the others: Robert Hardon, Pete Barton, and Cory Mitchell. I would have told him why I wanted to make these men pay.

I pull into my apartment complex and kill the engine, the sudden silence roaring in my ears after the noise of the clubhouse. The parking lot is mostly empty. One flickering streetlight throws weak yellow shadows across cracked pavement.

A bad feeling prickles across the back of my neck.

I automatically reach into my purse and wrap my fingers around the pepper spray clipped inside, just in case.

The cold air hits my bare legs when I step out of the car. I slam the door shut and lock it with a chirp, scanning the lot out of habit.

Nothing moves.

Still, unease crawls through me.

I shove the pepper spray into my jacket pocket and head toward the apartment entrance, my heels clicking too loudly against the pavement.

Three steps from the door, someone grabs me from behind.

I scream.

A thick arm snakes around my shoulders, jerking me backward hard enough to wrench my arm. Hot panic explodes through me, but instinct takes over before fear can freeze me.

I drive my elbow backward with all my strength.

A grunt sounds behind me.

I stomp down hard with my heel on my attacker’s foot. He loosens his grip just enough.

I twist violently and tear free.

Then I turn—

—and come face-to-face with Tony Martin.