Page 131 of Made for Wilde
I peel out of the driveway and gravel sprays behind me. The tracker app is open on the dash, the little blue dot pulsing at the far end of the empty school building. I gun it down the mountain road. Every muscle in my body is coiled and ready to break Adrian in half if he so much as lays a finger on her.
My foot slams the gas pedal to the floor. The truck fishtails around the first curve and the tires scream for traction, but I don’t let up for a second.
All I can think about is Charlotte. Her laugh, the way she curls into me at night, that stubborn little crease between her brows when she’s pissed. The feel of her belly under my hand, our baby kicking.
My jaw aches from how hard I’m grinding my teeth.
Adrian.
That little shit. I should’ve seen it coming. I thought he was just a nerdy kid with a crush and that he’d get over it eventually.
I was wrong.
Fuck.
If he’s touched her, if he’s even made her cry, I’ll kill him. I don’t care what it costs me.
Hang on, baby. I’m coming.
Thirty minutes later,the school comes into view and looms out of the midday brightness. The parking lot is empty except for Charlotte’s car and a black sedan parked crooked beside it. The engine is still ticking in the silence.
Every instinct in my body is screaming at me. Move, move, move.
I kill the lights and coast to a stop. My heart pounds so hard I can barely hear anything else. My hand finds my Glock in the center console. I chamber a round and tuck it low at my side as I step out.
The air is sharp, cold enough to burn my lungs.
I scan the lot. There’s nothing but the cars and the empty, shadow-soaked building. Not a single light on inside. The tracker app glows on my dash. Charlotte’s phone hasn’t moved.
My boots hit the pavement. I move fast and ignore the pain in my ribs. My focus narrows to a single point.
Get to her.
The front doors are locked. I yank hard and rattle the glass in its frame, but it doesn’t budge.
I circle the building and check every entrance.
All locked tight.
Sweat beads down my back despite the cold. My hands are shaking, not from the pain, but from the fear. Real, gut-deep terror.
I’m not losing Charlotte or our child. Not a fucking chance.
I spot a window low to the ground—maintenance closet, maybe. I slam the butt of my gun through it and glass shatters, raining down and slicing my forearm.
I don’t care.
I climb through, my boots crunching on broken glass as blood drips down my sleeve. The metallic tang mixes with the chemical stink of the school.
Tracker app open in my left hand, gun in my right.
The blue dot pulses, steady as a heartbeat. I follow it and run down the hall while adrenaline drowns out everything else. My lungs burn. My side feels like it’s on fire.
Doesn’t matter. I push harder.
At the end of the corridor, I see the supply room door.
The dot is right on the other side.
