Page 197 of Lovers Like Us
Don’tpanic.
I inhale, not fixating on the reasons why Nate would want to be in Maximoff’s bedroom. If I concentrate on that, I’ll loseit.
My phone buzzes, but I don’t bother checking his reply. I can’t have a five-minute text conversation or a phone call with Maximoff. Not rightnow.
I climb the flight of stairs, quietly. Careful not to cause the old wood to squeak. Each step is a razor blade held to my throat. Because I know exactly what I’m climbingtowards.
Anightmare.
A kind of hatred that I’ve seen for months in sick photo after sickphoto.
Last step, and I’ve reached the top. I face a door and listen for a shortmoment.
Hearing…I shake my head. I can barely distinguish thenoise.
But someone is in there. I’m not painting a vivid picture of what’sinside.
What I know: I need to end thistonight.
Turning the knob, I kick the dooropen.
And my heated gaze drills on a familiarface.
Thisfucker…
I grind myteeth.
Nate stands wide-eyed and eerily still next to the bed. At least two inches taller than me, could be more, his head almost touches the rafters and strungbulbs.
I hone in on hishands.
He clutches a stainless steel thermos, and in the other, he grips the hilt of a hunting knife. The mattress and orange comforter are already torn toshreds.
My muscles tighten; my jaw throbs from gritting, and I gently shut the door behindme.
As his shock wears off at being found, he narrows his gray-blue eyes on me. “You should understand,” Nate saysseriously.
I tilt my head. “Ishould understand,” I repeat, acid dripping in the back of my throat. “What exactly should I understand, Nate?”You son of abitch.
“You’ve seen Maximoff. You’ve seen him all overJane.”
“They’refriends—”
“No,” Nate cuts me off, shaking his head once. “Maximoff hashatedme because he’s jealous that I was sleeping with Jane. You know that? You know he wants her forhimself?”
I let out a short laugh of cold disbelief. I’m unblinking. Staring at someone who created a twisted narrative off assumptions and fabrications, something more dangerous than the innocent truth. “You really believe that bullshit,” Irealize.
His glare grows hotter. “People can brush off the tabloids like they mean nothing, but there’s truth there.” Nate points the blade at me. “You know it,too.”
My jaw tics. “I know you’ve been posting pics of Maximoff’s death on social media.” I’m 99% sure it’s him and just waiting forconfirmation.
He lifts his chin and hesitates for a second. Like he’s unsure how to reply. But then his nose flares, and he says, “It’s what hedeserves.”
“Fuck you,” I sneer, and a rampant fire ignites inside me. I charge, my stride lengthy andunrelenting.
Nate brandishes the knife at me less like a tool and more like a weapon. Ten feet away, his eyes warn me tostayback.
I don’tslow.
