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13

ROMAN

I’ve counted the ceiling beams seventeen times.

There are twelve.

There were twelve yesterday. And the day before.

I’m positive there will be twelve tomorrow.

I hate this damn cabin. I’m losing my fucking mind.

Bishop has taken away my work. I don’t have my truck. I can’t go into town for anything.

And even though my wound is improving, I’m not well enough to train normally.

I attempted some squats and push-ups yesterday. My side immediately informed me I’m an idiot.

I’ve cleaned my weapon twice more. Read a book, which I haven’t done in well over a decade. Walked the perimeter. Checked my burner phone about four hundred times, hoping Bishop has changed his mind.

Nope.

Even worse, I can’t stop thinking about Callie. Wondering if she’s at home, thinking of me. Or hating me for disappearing.

My guess is the latter.

She probably printed those pictures of me and is throwing knives at my forehead.

Fuck.

I don’t have her phone number, either.

Not that I would call her. Or should.

Tires crunch over the stone driveway.

I rush to the window, desperate for company. Hell, even a bear is preferable to this loneliness.

It’s Beck.

A few days ago, I wanted to murder him. Today, I’m so grateful for human companionship that I could hug him.

I open the door before he knocks.

Beck pauses with his fist raised. “Jesus. Were you waiting for me?”

“No.”

His brows fly up. “Yet, you opened the door before I knocked.”

“I heard your truck.”

He looks past me into the cabin. “You going stir-crazy, Hot Lips?”

“Fuck off, Mapquest.”

I step aside. Beck comes inside carrying bags.“Bishop sent supplies.”