Page 91 of Nash

Axel reads the text from him, and I know the sudden look on his face.

Trouble.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

VALE

“I’m fine,”I assure Alena for the hundredth time. “I promise.”

“I can stay.” She stands in my doorway. “I can call in sick. Loch can, too.”

“You’re not wasting your sick days on me. Go back to North Carolina and save Smokey the Bear, and I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“You sure?” Her face twists. “We have a guest room in our cabin. You can stay. Hike. Fish. Canoe.”

“I can vacation in a Dick’s Sporting Goods hell?” I wince. “That’s a hard pass.”

She laughs. “How are we best friends? My idea of heaven is roughing it, and your idea of heaven is rough sex?”

Memories of Nash eating my pussy like a feral dog flash in my mind, shooting heat to my core. “I’m fine,” I pant.

She furrows her brow.

“I mean… ” I stammer, “We’re best friends because we’re so damn different, but I promise, no primal play and heinous hickies until after your wedding, if ever again.”

After Alena’s wedding, I’ll move. I don’t want to stay in Charleston, where I might run into Nash or his Bratva brothers. I can move to Atlanta, finally finish my PhD, and start over. I can earn my license as a sex therapist and open a practice there.

Yeah, that’s the plan.

Anything to escape this feeling.

“Okay.” She gives me one last hug. “Then answer my texts and calls, and don’t scare me again. Promise?” She flips the bird at me.

“Promise.” I flip her back.

It’s a middle-school tradition.

After Alena leaves, I take a shower. I force myself to eat a leftover cheeseburger, and that only reminds me of Nash and our nights at The Mercier Hotel.

Dammit! What’s the shelf-life of heartbreak? How long does it last? I’ve never felt this way, and now I know why people do the most dysfunctional things over love. Because it really sucks losing it.

And when you lose the love of a not-mafia-mafia man, but you’re sworn to secrecy? It sucks worse than math.

I can’t talk to Alena about it. I can’t dissect every emotion with my twin, either. Where are my amateur counselors when I need them?

For hours, I try to find answers. I start readingThe Pleasure Zone: Why We Resist Good Feelings & How To Let Go and Be Happybecause this bitch is skeptical. But then I’m informed and inspired and then tired. I rest my book on my bed, close my eyes, and fall asleep.

I don’t hear the locks unlatch.

I don’t hear the door open.

I don’t hear the creak of the floorboard by my bed.

I awake to a giant silhouette and a massive hand over my screaming mouth, and terror rips the seams of my being apart. All thoughts are gone but survival as I kick and punch at the shadowy figure.

“It’s me, poison.”

“Fuck you!” I scream to no avail. Nash’s palm is the size of a polar bear’s.

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