Page 31 of Inferno

Danny is already at the base and working by the time I and the rest of the team get there, and it’s clear something has happened between him and Parker that’s sent him running. Idon’t bother to question him about what happened until days later, because in a few hours’ time we’ll be finishing our shift and heading home.

I love Danny like a brother, but sometimes he’s an idiot. I don’t know what’s gone on between him and Parker, but when he starts to spout bullshit about him being all in and her not being interested, I can’t help but laugh.

He’s a fucking fool if he can’t see what’s right in front of his face. Because that girl is head over heels in love with him, and the pair of them just need to pull their heads out of their asses long enough to realize it.

By the time I slow my car to a stop outside of my house, I’m itching with the need to see my boy. I’ve managed not to call or text Henry at all since I dropped him off at work on Friday morning, but now it’s Wednesday, and I’m desperate to know if he’s okay and make sure that he’s safe.

It’s taken all of my self-control over the past four days to suppress the urge to call the Barnetts and have them check on him for me. But I’ve managed to stop myself, because I need to decide how I can claim Henry and make him mine without smothering him, and right now I have no idea how to do that.

When I step into my house, the air still smells faintly of my boy. Unlike some of the men I’ve played with in the past, Henry doesn’t smell of cologne, he smells of clean laundry and faintly of apples. I have no idea how his scent could have lingered this long; it’s been days since he was here, but my dick twitches excitedly, like it thinks Henry is here waiting.

Of course he’s not. My house is cold and empty, and even when I step into the bedroom he used that night, there’s no trace of his presence. Determined not to sit and sulk, I change into my running gear and head out, hoping that some exercise will clear my mind and push all thoughts of him away.

Instead, my run has the opposite effect. When I run past the ranch office buildings and the paddocks full of horses, I imagine bringing him up here to show him the yearlings that are finding their feet and prancing around the paddocks with their tails held high. When I run through the forest paths, I imagine us hiking the trails together, and when I pause on the side of the mountain, staring out at the majestic vista, I imagine spreading my boy out and fucking him with the stars illuminating the sheer overwhelming beauty of the place we call home.

Instead of running all the way home, I find myself slowing to a walk, my thoughts entirely filled with Henry and how much I’ve fucked things up. Because if I’d have pulled my head out of my ass and fucked him the way I wanted to that night, he’d be coming home to me in a few hours, instead of going to his shitty, dangerous apartment.

Despite what he may think, I didn’t reject him that night. I know he thinks me stopping when I found out he was a virgin was because I didn’t want him, but that’s not the case, and I tried to tell him that. But it was clear he didn’t believe me, and I was so overwhelmed by my own issues that I never stopped to consider how I was affecting him.

I want him so much it hurts, but I need to figure out how to want him, how to have him without destroying him. I need to learn how to tamp down my controlling needs so I don’t suffocate him or inadvertently hurt him, the way I hurt Gabe.

Grabbing my cell, I type out a message, then hit send.

Me: Hey.

Staring at the screen, I wait for him to read it or reply, but the message just stays the same: sent but not acknowledged.Frustrated, I drop my cell onto the couch and storm into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water.

Once I’ve half emptied it, I march back to the couch, grab my cell, and check my messages again, but the single word is still unread.

Exhaling frustratedly, I try to convince myself that the reason he hasn’t read or replied is just because he’s at work. I don’t know my Kitten that well, but he seems like the conscientious type. I doubt he’d be the kind of employee who’d be checking his cell every five minutes.

Glancing at the time, I realize it’s early, barely ten a.m., and if his cell is in his bag, he probably won’t look at it until lunchtime.

Determined to waste time and take my mind off the lack of a reply, I fist my cell and head upstairs. I take an extra-long shower, bringing my cell into the bathroom with me, just in case he decides to call. He doesn’t.

Once I’m clean, dry, and dressed, I head back downstairs, feeling antsy and unsettled. Checking my cell every few minutes, I manage to force myself not to look for over an hour, but when I finally relent, the message is still showing as unread.

This is my own stupid fault. He’s ghosting me now because I was an asshole to him, then ignored him, and didn’t call or text him for five days. Deep down I know that the reason I haven’t contacted him is because I want to prove to myself that I won’t smother him or become obsessive about what he’s doing and who he’s with. But in reality, my version of space has pushed too much distance between us and given him a chance to doubt what I feel for him, when I should have reassured him.

The dominant in me wants to drive to town, to demand that if I call or text he better reply or else there’ll be consequences. But I can’t do that…I won’t do that, because he’s not my sub. Hell, I don’t know if he even really understands what a sub is, because he’s a twenty-two-year-old fucking virgin.

Fuck.

I drive myself insane going round and round in circles while I wait for him to reply to my text. But as the clock ticks past noon and slowly moves toward twelve thirty p.m., it finally dawns on me that he really is ignoring me, and I probably deserve it.

Pulling up his contact, I hit Call and lift my cell to my ear. The line rings once, then connects to voicemail. Holding the cell in front of me, I stare down at the screen, my brow furrowed. He blocked me. I don’t know for sure, but I’m fairly confident that he blocked me.

I knew he was upset when I dropped him at the garage on Friday morning. I knew that I’d probably have to do some work to convince him that he was mine, and that by not contacting him while I was at work, I was just giving him some space to prove to both of us that I could. But I never expected him to block me. He’s closed the line of communication between us, and now I have no idea what to do.

Opening my browser, I search for the number of the garage and hit Call the moment I find it.

“Good morning, Barnett Auto Shop, Henry speaking, how may I help you?” Henry answers, his voice sweet and warm.

“Did you block me?” I growl, without any of the finesse I’d intended to use.

“I’m sorry?” He sounds genuinely confused.

“I asked you a question, Boy. Did you block my number?” I growl again, filling my voice with the dominance that I’ve spent the last four days convincing myself I won’t inflict on him.

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