Page 72 of Knot What She Seems
I bite my lip and scan both directions. And…there. I spot his broad back and golden hair as he turns a corner.
This is stupid, Brylee.
You should not be following the psychotic alpha.
Yet my brain doesn’t seem to be communicating with my feet.
This stretch of hallway is longer than the other, allowing me to see who, exactly, Ridge is following.
Fear skates up my spine and knots in my throat.
Why is Ridge following the headmaster of Eros Academy?
I try to piece together everything I know about Headmaster Graves, but frankly, the information is lacking. I know that he’s a trusted official. He’s the last person who would ever betray my parents.
Right?
I quicken my pace, my gaze intent on Ridge’s back.
If the headmaster is selling secrets to our enemies, then I need to know, especially after what they did to me. I need to?—
Limbs straining as I dangle from the ceiling.
Pain reverberating through me.
Tears dusting my eyes.
Oh god.
My breaths are embarrassingly choppy. There isn’t just a boulder lodged in my throat anymore but an entire mountain, gravel raking against the skin.
I stop walking and place one hand against the wall, attempting to hold myself upright.
Desperate cries as I scream for the men I love to save me.
Pain, pain, and more pain.
Only pain.
So much pain.
Familiar arms reach for me, steadying me.
I don’t think, just act, twisting in his arms and burying my face in his chest. His smell surrounds me. Grounds me. I want to get lost in it, in him. I know that he can hold my broken, jagged pieces together. He may not make me whole—only I am capable of doing that—but he can certainly help the process.
I breathe him in, nose nestled against his shirt as I wait for the panic to subside, to ebb away like a wave cresting the shoreline and then retreating to the ocean. I hate how weak I feel when a memory grabs hold of me the way it just did.
Breathe, Brylee. Just breathe.
I force air past the knot in my throat, belatedly aware that my savior has moved us out of the hallway and into a janitor’s closet. The scents of ammonia and bleach contaminate his perfect smell, and rack upon rack of cleaning materials surround us.
Breathe.
I blink away the tears in my eyes and tilt my chin up to stare at the underside of his masked face.
Colter.
And then I remember where I am—whoI am—and panic sets in again with a vengeance. I stagger backward, my back slamming against a shelf, but Colter simply watches me, his eyes dark and fathomless beneath his mask.
