Page 55 of His Fury

Getting involved with Zayn. Finding out about Julian’s mess. Did I trust the wrong people? Did I not ask the right questions soon enough? Or at all?

Was all of this my fault? It felt like it, but part of me knew it wasn’tallmy fault. But there had to be accountability on my part. Right?

My eyes closed, and I leaned my head back, the chilled wine a familiar comfort in my hand.

In the silence, I faced the truth of my dilemma. It wasn’t the fear of the other night I couldn’t shake. It was the doubt.

Not about Zayn.

About myself.

My judgment. My instincts. My need to hold everything together even when the foundation was already crumbling.

Zayn said I had a blind spot.

What ifIwas the blind spot?

“Jesus, Isla, you’re going to need a helluva lot more wine before you touchthat.” I looked around the large room. Where the heck was the TV?

I sat up straight. Seriously…where was the TV? Armed with my wineglass, which I topped up along the way, I went in hunt of the downstairs to find the den, TV room, or whatever the heck Zayn had here.

I had been here for three days, and I hadn’t seen any TV, laptop, or gaming console. What did he do out here? Read? My heart fluttered at the thought of him in his study reading.

“You’re embarrassing yourself,” I whispered harshly.

I was back at the bottom of the stairs. I hadn’t found a TV. Zayn had set my replacement phone up for me, even though I hadn’t used it yet. Taking my phone out of his hoodie pocket, I debated about asking a perfectly normal question—“How do you turn the TV on?”—rather than what I actually texted.

Rye, is there a TV I can watch?

Why are you texting me?

Because I don’t care if you think I’m stupid and can’t find the TV.

Do you know or not?

TV room.

Asshole.

The basement, Isla.

I refused to ask where it was. I simply went hunting for a door that led to the basement.

The sharp knock on the front door shattered the quiet.

My heart jumped into my throat as I turned too quickly, the wine sloshing over my hand. I pulled the phone back out of my pocket, checking for messages or a missed call. Nothing.

I inched toward the front door, remembering his note. Only Zayn or Rye would be coming through it. I peeked through the side panel.

It wasn’t either of them.

It was Julian.

His hands were jammed into his coat pockets, his head down, while he paced. He looked…tired. Nervous. Smaller than I remembered.

I should’ve walked away. I should’ve kept the door closed and left him outside. Instead, I pulled it open just far enough to see his face.

His eyes lifted, meeting mine. “Isla…”

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