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Nausea spreads through my chest, teasing the back of my throat, and I dig my fingernails into my thighs at his words, trying to keep the fear from overtaking me. Panic is of no use to you right now, I tell myself, steeling my breaths from the way they wrap around my sternum like vines, constricting until I feel lightheaded.
Focus on what you can control.
His words press down on my skull, making it ache as I struggle to comprehend what he’s saying.
My throat burns as they process, and I begin to slide out from the booth, glancing around the restaurant to see if I can attract any attention. The place is too dark for me to make out anyone, and the angry couple from before has disappeared, leaving a full table across the room and us.
Oh, God, this is where I die.
Swallowing, I keep my gaze trained on Romeo, inching my way out of the seat. He’s seething, although I still don’t fully understand why it’s directed at me all of a sudden, he doesn’t seem to register my movements. Slipping my phone out from beneath my thigh, I use muscle memory to unlock the screen and open my call log, hitting the most recent number and praying he answers.
I can just barely hear the din of a voicemail beep, and my insides deflate, fear building like a threatening storm inside me. My body is so tense, so prepared for the slightest move from Romeo, that it starts to ache; my knees throb, my shoulders pulse, and a tremor racks over me, the first visible motion either of us has made in minutes.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Romeo asks, scooting to the edge of the table along with me. “I asked you to come here hoping you’d bring your little boy toy. He hasn’t shown up yet, so you don’t get to go. I have unfinished business with him.”
“He’s not going to show up,” I croak, surprised I’m able to talk at all. “You’re using the wrong person as leverage. He hates me.”
“That’s not what it sounded like on the phone. I think he was jealous, and I think it’s because he saw you. He’s close by.” When he glances around the restaurant, I take my chance, hold my purse tight against me, and bolt from the seat; his hand lashes out, grasping the ends of my hair as it billows behind me, but my momentum carries me before he has a chance to really latch on.
I feel hair as it’s plucked from my scalp, but I don’t stop to mourn its loss. Knowing he can’t chase after me inside a restaurant without raising suspicion, I head for the back alley, hoping I have enough time before he comes around to get to where my Jeep is parked.
Pushing open the emergency exit, ignoring the beep it makes while it swings open, I look left and right; one way is a dead end, cut off by a barbed wire fence, and the other is the street near the entrance of the restaurant. Panting, I make the decision to duck behind the dumpster and hide, hoping Romeo will assume I’ve fled and go looking after me.
I’m shaking uncontrollably as I crouch down, the smell of rotted food not even registering as I cover my mouth to quiet my breathing. A drainpipe drips in the distance, the sound echoing off the brick walls around me, and I scratch at my skin as panic swirls in my gut, cursing myself for being so fucking stupid.
Boyd said his mother attacked Riley, but Romeo claimed to have done it.
He raped her.
Is it possible they’d been working together? I don’t exactly know much about his mother outside of the fact that she’s a drug addict who apparently hates her kids, and in a town like King’s Trace, there have been crazier notions.
Footsteps draw me from my thoughts, and I suck in a deep breath, holding it as I try to sink into the shadows, my heart beating so hard and fast I’m afraid it might give me away.
“Come out, come out, Princess Fiona,” Romeo taunts, his voice growing louder as he advances down the alleyway. “I promise I’ll play nice, long as Boyd gives me what he owes me.”
Rolling my eyes, I move my purse to the ground and tip my foot back so my heel sticks out, watching his shadow loom larger as he comes toward me. His steps are slow, calculated, indicating he doesn’t know where I’m hiding, which means I have the element of surprise on my side.
Placing my palms against the cold pavement, I anchor myself and position my foot—this is why my mother always insists—insisted, fuck. The adrenaline is warping my sense of time—I wear stilettos on dates, because they are easily weaponized.
I send a silent prayer, thanking her, and grit my teeth just as Romeo’s pant leg comes into view.
He’s got a handgun clasped between his hands, pointed right toward my head, but I can tell he isn’t exactly sure if he has a good shot because of the darkness. He hesitates, and it’s his downfall.
Kicking with all my strength, my heel connects with his shin, startling him to the point that the gun falls away. He yelps, bending down to clutch at his leg, and I spring to my knees, glad I wore jeans, my hands searching the ground for his gun.
My fingers brush the cool metal just as he wraps a fist in my hair, yanking so hard I black out for a second, and then he’s pulling me backward and up off the ground, grabbing my throat and shoving me against the wall.
He squeezes until I can’t breathe, and I kick at his waist, trying to gain purchase as the life drains from my eyes; finally, I connect with his balls and he releases me, howling to himself. Throwing my shoulders back, I channel every ounce of my bloodline that I can, raising the gun in my hands, and shoot as fireworks erupt in the night sky, celebrating Halloween King’s Trace style.
