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“No. By myself means no you, no Roman, no Alfie. No one.” She mirrors me and crosses her arms, pushing out her chin.
“Okay. See you later then.” I put my empty mug in the sink and start over toward the couch.
“Really? Just like that?” She eyes me suspiciously, clearly not expecting me to relent so easily.Damn, I love messing with her.She nibbles her cheek as she processes, and her blue eyes scrutinize me, searching for something but not sure what.
“Have a good day,” I say cordially and turn my attention to opening up a magazine from the coffee table.
“Okay…bye?” I watch her creep forward hesitantly in my periphery. Her round bottom is squeezed into a pair of light-wash jeans, and a peek of skin is visible above the high waist. I’m tempted to pull up her shirt and see if she carries my finger marks.
“Your ass looks fucking fantastic today,” I say without looking up. I can practically hear her roll her eyes as she walks out of the apartment.
I wait thirty seconds, then take my phone back out. I hear another ring from out in the hallway.
“Hey, boss.” Alfie answers before the second ring.
“Follow her.”
1My blood boils, and my grip tightens painfully around the hard edges of my phone. “Thanks for the update.” I hang up and throw it across the room. It flies into a framed photo, sending glass shattering.
When Alfie called to update me on Harlow’s little excursion I thought it might be this, but I hoped it wasn’t. I didn’t realize how much I’d hoped it wasn’t until I heard him tell me and a bomb detonated in my gut.
She went to the fucking police station. Ran right back to her fuck-toy detective. My teeth grind together as I imagine his slimy hands roaming her curves, curves that belong tome.
Leo this, Leo that. I should have gotten a fucking clue when she didn’t call him by his last name or title. Blinded by pussy like a goddamn simp.
I tug at my collar, feeling too tight in my own skin.
She’s mine. She’sfucking mine.
I spend the next ten minutes dreaming about cutting her out of those skin-tight, skanky-ass jeans and taking my hand to her ass until I can’t feel my palm. I want her to carry my marks with her for days so that fucker will know who she really belongs to.
I hear her greet Roman in the hallway outside my apartment. Her voice is a forced singsong.Liar.My muscles shake as the doorknob turns and she steps in, her fake smile immediately falling as soon as she sees me. She knows she’s fucked up and is about to pay up.
“How was your meeting?” Years of practice allow me to keep my tone even-keeled and undisturbed. She stays frozen a few steps inside, eyes glued to an envelope in her hands. My jaw grinds at her refusal to face me.
I uncross and recross my legs, my body aching to jump up and confront her face to face. “I asked you a question.” I can’t contain the snarl that slips out.
Her breath sluices in and out in ragged attempts to catch her breath, and I realize her hands are trembling around the envelope. She remains frozen, like she can’t even hear me. Aggravated by her lack of response, but also nagged by the sense something isn’t right, I approach her in unhurried strides.
I stop in front of her, and she slowly raises her chin. Tears brim her eyes and her nostrils pump in sync with her heaving chest as she struggles for breath. There’s fear in her eyes, and it’s not fear of me. No, she’s looking at me for help, to rescue her from whatever terror is haunting her.
In an instant, the red-hot rage simmering in my veins turns ice cold. “What happened? Are you hurt?” I hardly recognize the protective growl in my own voice.
She hands me the envelope. I pull out a single sheet of paper—a photograph. The side with the image is facing down and the side facing me has a string of words tapped out in typewriter lettering:
Oink, oink. Talk to pigs, get slaughtered like a pig.
I flip the photo print over. It’s a shot I recognize immediately. It’s from the day I took Harlow to her apartment. Harlow, Leo, and I are standing on the sidewalk by my car. She has her hand on Leo’s arm and it’s obvious they are mid-conversation.
My skin prickles with what this means.Whothis is from. He’s found us, he’s foundher.
“He’s gonna kill me.” Her voice is shockingly empty of emotion, dry and hollow. It grates against my heart. “He’s gonna kill me like he killed her. He was a machine, just stabbing over and over and over—”2
I shove the photo and envelope into my pocket and grasp her face between my palms.
“Baby, look at me—”
“There was so much blood, Cash. So much red, so much black.” Her eyes lock with mine, but she isn’t there. She’s somewhere else, her gaze staring past me, through me. “He’s gonna kill me,” she repeats, and I catch her as her knees buckle, her eyes still impassive and glazed over.
