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He stood there without restraints.
The ramifications of that hit home before anything else.
Traitor.
I picked up the chair again.
And I charged.
PART2
Some women are more moth than butterfly, unveiling their painted wings in the moonlight where only someone who isn’t afraid to enter the darkness is worthy to adore them.
- Amanda Celek
21
STAR
Before the chaircollided with him, his hands were up, fingers swiping the battered frame from my grip with an ease that took me aback.
Conor was a desk jockey.
I’d seen the pictures on those few occasions he’d starred in an article onPage Sixand had seen his upper half during video calls, so I knew he wasn’t doughy, but this was different.
He was strong.
As he snagged the chair and threw it across the room, I gaped at him.
He just arched a brow at me. “Lodestar.”
My throat bobbed at that.
Lodestar.
Not Star.
He was mad at me.
The pain that overwhelmed me crushed my chest. I shook my head as I keened the words, “You’re a traitor.”
He sniffed. “I’m not the one who ran away.”
“So you turned against me? You’re one of them!” I shrieked, confusion tearing me to shreds because a part of me just wanted to hurl myself at him and another part wanted to kick him between the legs and crack those fucking nuts of his.
“No. I came here to find you,” he corrected, folding his arms across his chest. “Youare the one who embroiled me in a million conspiracies and then cut and goddamn ran.”
A million conspiracies?
The ache in my head doubled down, making my temples feel like they were pounding as blood rushed to the sensitive skin. “Are you really here?” That was wishful thinking.
If he wasn’t here, he hadn’t betrayed me.
Not Conor. No.He couldn’t be a Brother. He couldn’t be a member of the United Brotherhood.
Completely in the dark as to where my mind had taken me, my question had him scowling, then he stunned me by stepping closer, his hand moving toward me. I jolted in surprise, turning to the side to avoid his touch. He only tutted his irritation, ignoring how I’d twisted away from him so he could press the backs of his fingers to my forehead.
“You’re running a fever.”
