Page 97 of Red King

“It’s what he wants.”

“It’s what hethinkshe wants.” My voice has a desperate edge, but I don’t care. “Please. If he turns me away, I’ll leave.”

I hear him breathing through the line. I almost hear him thinking it through.

“Be ready in twenty minutes,” he says. “If he turns you away, I don’t want arguments.”

“Understood.”

“Okay, then.” The line goes dead.

“He said yes,” I say.

“He said yes,” Maggie repeats, sounding surprised. Her eyes are big. “Tread carefully, Paisley. It’s the advice you gave me and to yourself, remember? This is starting to venture into more than just fucking.”

“I know.” I chew on my lip. “This isn’t a regular situation, though. Besides, I’d do this for anyone.”

“Of course you would.” Maggie smiles and finishes her last sip of wine. “I’ll go home. I could do with a night in my own bed…on my own. We’ll chat tomorrow.” She gasps. “Unless you need me sooner. You know I’m here for you.” She makes a face.

“You mean if Arctic doesn’t let me in?”

It’s a distinct possibility. I hate the idea. But at least he will know I tried.

Maggie nods. “If he doesn’t let you in and you’re feeling sad and lonely, come to me. I make a mean hot chocolate.”

“Deal.” We hug. I hope I don’t need that hot chocolate.

26

Arctic

I’m fine.

Hunky fucking dory.

That bastard got everything he deserved. Ice killed the love of my life. He may as well have pulled the trigger himself. In my mind’s eye, I keep picturing just that. I keep picturing him with the gun and him shooting all of those holes into my mate. I picture him laughing as she bled out.

I change into shorts, walk to my home gym, and start in on the punching bag, going hard right from the start.

I pummel the bag, feeling the rage build up within me instead of dissipating as I had hoped. It’s like a wild animal trying to claw its way out of my chest. I hit harder and faster, sweat dripping down my face and my hands stinging from the force of each punch. My frustration seems to mount with each hard blow.

I finally feel my knuckles split and start to bleed, but it hardly registers in the chaos of my thoughts. I’m so damned angry, not just with Ice but with myself, too. I’m filled with this unshakable loneliness that seems to gnaw at my very soul.

I did what I had to do.

Justice was served.

After a time, I stop hitting the bag. I’m breathing hard. Sweat and blood stain the floor. My arms are trembling from the exertion and sheer force of my strikes. Sweat drips from my brow, and yet I feel no better.

For a second, I consider shifting and flying, but that would require a whole fucking entourage, and I don’t want to see anyone right now.

I can’t.

I’m not fit for public consumption.

I still have far too much energy, so I hop on the treadmill, starting at a slow pace, trying to keep my breathing steady. The sound of my own heartbeat in my ears, the rhythmic pounding of my feet on the treadmill should be soothing. It isn’t.

Unfortunately, you can’t run away from yourself or your thoughts. You certainly can’t outrun your memories.

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