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I can just go. Just run. Forget having a plan, forget finding a safe place. Anywhere has to be better than this, right? I can go to Scarlett’s and hide out there, or better yet, skip town all together and not drag her any deeper into this mess with me. Maybe if I get far enough away, they won’t be able to come after me.
It’s probably wishful thinking. Everybody in this city fears the Black Roses for a reason—because people don’t cross them and live. But empty hope is all I’ve got at the moment, so I cling to it with both fucking hands.
I take the stairs back down two at a time, but before I can make it through the living room, I hear the front door open.
“Your savior is here with pizza!”
It’s Rory. The sound of his deep voice would usually calm me down, but instead, it makes my pulse kick into a wild gallop. I’m stuck in the middle of the living room looking like a deer in headlights.
“Savior my ass.” Levi comes down the stairs, rolling his eyes. His hair is damp from a post-workout shower, and he looks comfortable in sweats and a t-shirt. When he sees me standing by the couch, he grins. “There you are. I’m sure you heard because he’s a fucking loudmouth, but Rory brought pizza. We’re gonna watch a dumb movie and eat. Come on.”
He takes my hand and starts tugging me in the direction of the couch. It takes everything in me not to snatch my hand away from him, and I hate how just him touching me calms me down a little. Because I can’t trust him. I can’t trust either of them. I don’t know what they want from me. I don’t know what they know.
I feel like I’m drowning in worry and anxiety, and Levi seems totally casual and relaxed.
Rory walks into the living room, pizza boxes in hand, and he winks at me as he moves to set them on the table.
“Hey, Hurricane. Where do you fall on the pineapple on pizza debate?”
“The… what?” I stammer, blinking at him.
He can’t be talking about something as mundane as pizza toppings right now. Not when my whole world feels like it was shattered apart less than an hour ago.
“Pineapple on pizza,” he repeats, grinning. “I picked up a bacon and pineapple pizza because I know Sloan hates it. Figured it means there’ll be more for the rest of us. Unless you’re a heathen who’s against a little sweet and salty action.”
He leans closer to me, waggling his eyebrows, and I can hear the flirtatious undertone in his words. But it doesn’t make me feel better. If anything, it makes that feeling in my gut worse. If he knows what’s happening, then he’s playing a sick game.
But he’s also waiting for an answer, clearly, so I swallow hard and glance down at the boxes. “It’s fine. I don’t mind it.”
“That’s what I said,” Levi chimes in. “Would I order it myself? Probably not. But if you put it in front of me, I’ll eat it. Pizza is pizza.”
“Okay, you say that, but what if I brought home something like ham and olives? Mushroom and anchovy? Green pepper and eggplant?”
“They don’t have eggplant pizza.”
“They do in Italy.”
“Well, if we ever go to Italy, I’ll worry about it then.”
They banter back and forth the way they always do, and I just stand there until Levi gives me a look. Moving on some kind of autopilot, I go to sit next to him on the couch, my skin prickling with nerves.
My palms are sweaty, my fingers twitching to curl into fists. I can’t decide if I should try to fight my way out of here or just bolt and make a run for it. And even as my mind plays out a half dozen different scenarios, the two men keep acting so fucking relaxed and normal that it’s hard for me to focus. I feel like I’m going fucking crazy.
Rory brings plates and napkins from the kitchen and starts handing out slices. He
puts one bacon and pineapple on my plate, and one pepperoni and sausage, and I take it, staring down at the little puddles of grease in the pepperoni cups. I’m not even a little bit hungry.
In fact, I think I might throw up.
“Where’s Sloan?” Rory asks. “His car’s not here.”
As soon as the words are out of his mouth, the front door opens again, and I go rigid, my stomach dropping to the floor.
“Speak of the devil.” Rory grins, then cranes his neck to call over his shoulder. “Sloan, get in here! Pizza’s getting cold.”
“I’m coming.” The deep voice floats toward us from the front of the house, and a second later, Sloan steps into the living room.
He looks exactly the same as he did when I saw him standing across from my dad, shooting him dead. There are no lines of tension in his posture, no look of remorse on his face. He looks totally casual. Like nothing even happened.
