Page 25 of Mortify

"Motherfucker," I growl, hands tightening on my handlebars.

She makes it to her car, movements slow and deliberate.

When she turns to check for traffic, I get a glimpse of her face.

Pale. Tear-stained. Dead eyes that make my chest ache.

I wait until she pulls out, then follow at a distance.

Not too close—the last thing she needs is to think someone's tailing her, but not so far that I lose sight of her either.

She drives carefully, probably on autopilot.

Takes the direct route to her apartment, no stops.

Good. At least she's being safe about that.

I know where she lives—did that homework too.

Small complex closer to downtown, decent neighborhood, but nothing fancy.

The kind of place a woman on an EMT's salary can afford.

She parks and sits in her car for long minutes before finally getting out.

The way she moves, slow and pained, makes rage burn in my gut.

What did that bastard do to her?

I watch her make it inside, wait another ten minutes to make sure she's not coming back out.

Then I drive around the block, wrestling with myself.

I should go home.

Should forget this whole thing, let her handle her own problems like she said.

Should respect her wishes and her privacy and all that shit.

Instead, I park and get off my bike.

Her apartment's on the second floor.

I can see her lights on, shadows moving behind the curtains.

She's home. She's safe. That should be enough.

It's not.

My feet carry me up the stairs before my brain catches up.

This is insane.

She barely knows me beyond being another face at the club.

What am I gonna say? "Hey, I followed you home from your abusive boyfriend's place, just checking in?"

But I'm already knocking, three sharp raps that echo in the quiet hallway.

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