Page 62 of Raziel
Toothpaste foamed in my mouth. I leaned over the sink, spat, rinsed.
“Maybe if you stopped acting like a psycho, I wouldn’t have to.”
His jaw flexed. “What are you hiding?”
I laughed—short and mean. “Nothing. I did it because I knew it would piss you off.”
“You talking to Matteo?” The name cracked through the air like a whip.
I turned to face him. “You’re obsessed.”
He didn’t deny it. Just stared at me, breathing hard, the phone still clutched in his hand like he wanted to crush it.
Then he left.
No words. Just gone.
The next time I saw my phone, it was in pieces on the kitchen counter. Smashed screen. Bent frame. Battery removed. It looked like he’d dissected it.
In its place?
A brand-new phone in a sleek black box. Still sealed.
I opened it and stared.
There was a note tucked inside:
You don’t need a code.
I sighed and dropped my head.
This was my fault. I’d actually wanted his attention—just not this much, not after the incident at the club.
I wanted to be mad longer.
By the morning of the third day, the walls were closing in.
I heard the shower turn on in the bathroom. The pipes groaned. This was it. My only shot.
My heart jackhammered against my ribs. I moved silently, a fugitive in my own life—or maybe I was being dramatic.
I didn’t grab a bag. Didn’t take my phone—he’d track it.
I just needed out.
I slid into the sneakers by the door, hands trembling as I untangled the keys to my motorcycle from the hook.
The lock turned with a click that sounded like a gunshot in the silent apartment. I froze, listening.
Nothing but the steady spray of the shower.
I slipped out, pulling the door shut with a soft, final thud.
I didn’t breathe until I was on the bike, the familiar growl of the engine roaring to life. I kicked it into gear and peeled away from the curb.
Looking back—
There he was.
