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And who could I tell? They’d all think I was insane and… I mean, they might not have been wrong. In that moment, I felt the farthest from sane I’d ever been aside from that one time I did a few too many edibles at once. At least I was pretty sure that wasn’t happening right now. I’d never forget the feeling of being way too high with my thoughts slippery, not to mention resetting every few minutes. This morning, I was definitely lucid. I was thinking clearly. Wasn’t I?
God. I needed to talk to someone. Ideally someone who was good under pressure and could sort this out rationally while I mentally unraveled the way I wasthiscloseto doing.
I was tempted to reach out to my sister, but that photo on the wall in my bedroom made me reconsider. I had no idea when it had been taken, so she could still be pregnant, or she could be dealing with a newborn who made her run on twelve minutes of sleep. No, she didn’t need this stress. Not now.
So that left…
I ran through names of friends and family, but my mind kept lurching back to one person in particular. Both because he had the calmest head in a crisis, and because I wanted some damn answers about why he wasn’there.
Matteo.
He was a veterinarian who worked with exotics, including some of the more dangerous ones. Thinking on his feet and staying cool in chaos? That was a hundred percent Matteo.
I grabbed my phone again, went to my contacts, and—
He wasn’t there.
There weren’t any texts or calls from him either. Not even the ones I distinctly remembered exchanging yesterday afternoon when he’d let me know his flight had landed and I’d told him I was waiting at baggage claim. I knew those texts had existed because I could still feel the little flutter ofoh my God, you’re homewhen my screen had lit up with a simple message of,On the ground.
But they were gone. The messages. The text window. The man I’d been eagerly waiting to see. There was no evidence of him in my phone or in my condo.
What in the actual hell?
The panic that welled in me this time almost had me falling apart for real. Did Matteo evenexist?Had I hallucinated our entire relationship or something?
Hands shaking, I switched to an internet browser and looked up the name of his clinic. It came up, and—
There.
Matteo Segreto, D.V.M.
A photo, too, though that made me do a serious double take. I’d been with him for six years, and I’d never seen him that gaunt. And even last night, after a week at a conference (which always wore him out) and the long day of traveling home, he hadn’t had circles that dark under his eyes. He usually had a bright smile in his office photo, too. His expression in this one made me think the photographer had all but begged him to at least humor him andtryto smile, and this was the best Matteo could muster.
Suddenly I needed to see him. Immediately. I was freaking the fuck out about whatever had happened to my life and my mind, and now I also needed to know what in God’s name happened to my boyfriend.
I tossed my phone aside and got up to get dressed. In minutes, I was out the door, and my panic didn’t get any better, because my condo wasn’t the only thing that had changed.
I tried not to notice that the chip in my windshield was gone. I insisted to myself that the gas station on the corner had changed to a different chain months ago and I just hadn’t noticed. But goddammit, I wouldn’t have overlooked when that old apartment building had been demolished, and I sure as shit would’ve noticed when it was replaced by a gleaming new CVS. In fact, I hadjustbeen telling Matteo like two weeks ago that it was going to collapse and kill someone.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I was pretty sure I ran a red light.
I was absolutely sure I didn’t care.
Because I needed to get my terrified ass to Matteo’s clinicnow.
Chapter 2
Matteo
“Are you sure that doesn’t need stitches?” My vet tech Lia craned her neck to peer at the towel I was holding around my forearm. “Because I think it needs stitches.”
I gritted my teeth against the intense sting. “It’s fine. I’ve had way worse.”
She rolled her eyes. “Look, I know you don’t like needles, but ‘I survived getting glared at by a basilisk’ does not negate ‘I might need stitches because a raróg tried to filet my stupid arm.’”
I shot her a look, and she countered with one almost as intense as that of the aforementioned basilisk.
