Page 96 of Stalked By the Alphas
Leah clinks her glass against mine, a wry smile on her face. “To being free,” she echoes, before downing the shot in one go.
I follow suit, the vodka burning a path down my throat. For a moment, we stand there in silence, the weight of our shared experience hanging heavy between us.
“Want to talk about it?” I ask, hearing my words slur slightly.
“Not really. You?”
I shake my head. “Nah. What’s done is done.”
She gives me a wide-eyed stare, and then she sinks down to a chair, her shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry,” she says eventually.
“What for?” I ask, sitting opposite her.
“For what he did to you.”
“That wasnotyour fault.”
“No, but I invited you to my house that day. Maybe if we hadn’t been friends…”
“Stop,” I spit out, getting angry. “You are not responsible for what he did.”
“I killed him,” she whispers. “It doesn’t help with the nightmares.”
Her confession takes me by surprise. “You killed him?”
I pour us another shot each, needing the liquid courage to continue this conversation. She picks up the glass and throws the vodka down her throat like a seasoned pro. “I’m sorry I didn’t get to him sooner. I was held up.” Her bitter words are like an iron grip on my heart.
“He held you captive?” I whisper.
She shakes her head. “Worse. He had me sectioned for telling lies and imagining things and having hallucinations.”
Her pale blue eyes meet mine, and I gulp. “What?”
She holds the glass up for more. I oblige because… fuck.
“I’m sorry, Leah. That is truly heinous.”
“I’m here. He’s not. Gotta check out that silver lining, right?” She gulps back the vodka.
“Right.” I take a sip of mine. There are no words.
So we both sit there, taking comfort from each other and the booze and weirdly… it’s enough.
55
CARTER
It’stwilight when I finally pull back up to the hotel. I needed to drive, to think, to have something to do that didn’t send me straight to Hazel. The time was well spent, rehearsing what I’d say. It’s the lawyer part of me that was bashed into my soul since I was old enough to debate. It’ll come naturally once I’m in front of her, but I need a basis of where to start, a middle and an ending. The air is still warm and humid as I step out of the air-conditioned Range Rover. I see the Rolls Royce almost immediately, parked not too far away, and I grimace at it. Then, I ignore it and, gripping the package tightly, I stalk up the pathway towards the hotel entrance.
I hear the car door open and shut and then my father’s voice, clipped and pissed off, “Carter.”
I don’t respond. I have nothing to say to him, either of them.
“Carter!” he snaps and lets out a low growl.
I force myself not to turn around.
His footsteps are right behind me, and then he grips the collar of my tee, forcing me to a halt and choking me in the process. “Get the fuck off,” I snarl.
