Page 29 of Desperate People

I want to tear through the city and rip him apart with my bare hands.

Want to watch him beg while I carve out his heart with a fucking spoon.

But first, I need to get her out of here.

Safe.

Now.

I turn from the room, every step trembling with restraint, and walk to the bathroom door.

I knock, softly, because I know she’s in there, scared, alone.

Hiding in the one room she probably thought was safe.

“It’s me,” I say, voice low.

Controlled. Because if she hears the storm in it, it’ll scare her more.

“Lucy. Open up, Angel. I’ve got you now.”

I press my hand to the door, palm flat, wishing like hell I could reach through and hold her.

Because right now?

I’d do anything—burn everything—to take all this, the fucking memory if this, and wipe it from her mind. Replace it with something better.

Something cleaner. Purer.

And I will.

I swear to God, I fucking will.

I knock again. Harder.

The door opens almost instantly.

And there she is.

Lucy.

Still wearing some too fucking sexy outfit she had on for the party she attended.

It’s like navy blue silk with a thousand shimmery crystals painted across her skin.

She’s barefoot, her stockinged feet make no sound as she steps back to let me in.

My gaze is glued to hers, and I don’t like what I see.

Her eyes are too wide. Her shoulders too tense.

She’s trying to look composed, but I know the signs.

She’s scared.

I move past her before I can stop myself.

My eyes scan the small space, cataloging everything.

---