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My Sparrow continued in an onslaught of threats and curses, all of them aimed at me. I deserved it. I deserved it all.
What better way to prove how sorry I was for everything? That I loved her?
I would rather die than watch him touch her for another second. I would rather spend eternity in the fiery pits of hell than see the strain in her eyes. Hear the fear she worked so hard to hide in her voice.
I should’ve died twelve years ago. In that bedroom with my fucked up family.
I should’ve died a hundred times since.
Numb, I lifted the phone to my face, hating that I’d never see hers again, but my brothers would.
“Rook and Grey will find you,” I promised her, speaking over her broken, shouting voice.
I looked at Drake now, who pushed himself to his feet, the triumph in his eyes making my chest burn with rage. “I’ll see you in hell.”
“Looking forward to it.”
My Sparrow sobbed, her curses and shouts weaker as she lobbied them through the dam blocking her voice. “I hate you!” she screamed at me. “Don’t do this!”
But I was already walking to the edge, stepping up to the plate. Batting my last fucking round.
She’d be fine without me. They would all be.
Rook and Grey had a bond far stronger than I shared with either of them.And who’s fault is that? My subconscious hissed.
My own.
I didn’t let people get close. Wouldn’t let them in. Let them see what hid beneath the layers I sealed myself inside.
And now I never would.
“I’m sorry, Sparrow. For everything.”
I dropped my phone onto the gravel and turned away from the view of the city I’d come to call home, shutting my eyes. Spreading my wings wide. My heels shuffled beyond the ledge, hanging over empty air.
…and I fell.
We rushedoff the elevator from the parking garage, shoes screeching on the freshly polished marble of the lobby, searching for him.
I cursed as I brought my phone back down from my ear. Voicemail. Again.
“Check the app again,” I snarled at Grey, making for the front desk, shoving a suit out of the way to get to the front of the line.
“It still says he’s here. He should be right fuckinghere.”
“Excuse me, sir, I believe that man there was ahead of you,” the maître-d chirped at my advance, backing away from the counter, his button up suddenly too tight around his fat neck.
“Tall fucker,” I said. “About yay high. Dirty blond hair. Scary looking face. Probably wearing a leather jacket. You seen him?”
His double chin bobbed as he tried and failed to utter a stuttering reply. “I-I-I’m not—”
“He took the elevator,” a bellhop replied from further down behind the long desk. “Maybe five minutes ago.”
“Which floor?”
The little pipsqueak’s lips closed.
I snapped my fingers at him. “Hey! Which fucking floor?”
