Page 13 of Fury
Something inside me snaps. The terror that's been choking me transforms into white-hot fury, burning away my fear like paper in a flame. This bastard followed me from Los Angeles. He invaded my home, my safety, my peace of mind. And now he's here, in my town, at the gates of my family's compound?
"Screw this," I growl, tossing my phone onto the passenger seat, my mother's frantic voice still calling my name. I pop open the glove compartment and grab the small handgun my father insisted I keep there. The weight is familiar in my palm, as I've been shooting since I was twelve.
I'm done running. Done hiding. Done being hunted.
I throw open my car door and step out, gun held low at my side. The night air is cool against my flushed skin as I stride toward the gate, my heels clicking against the pavement with each determined step.
"Hey!" I shout, my voice ringing out in the quiet night. "You looking for me? Well, here I am!"
The figure at the gate freezes, head snapping up at the sound of my voice. It's a man, medium build, wearing a dark hoodie pulled low over his face. He takes a startled step back from the keypad.
"What's wrong?" I call out, continuing my advance. "Surprised I'm not cowering in my car? Not the helpless little girl you thought I was?"
I'm at the gate now, close enough to see the shock in his posture. The gun hangs at my side, not raised but visible. My father's daughter through and through—never show fear, never back down, never let them see you sweat.
"You followed me all the way from California?" I demand, fury making my voice steady despite my racing heart. "For what? To scare me? To watch me run?"
He says nothing, just stares through the bars of the gate, his face still obscured by the hoodie.
"Well, I'm done running," I tell him, my free hand gripping one of the gate's metal bars. "You picked the wrong girl to terrorize. And you definitely picked the wrong family to fuck with."
In the distance, I hear the rumble of motorcycles—my father and brothers, no doubt, coming to my rescue. But I don't need rescuing. Not anymore.
"Next time you decide to stalk someone," I say, leaning closer to the gate, "make sure she's not an MC princess with a gun and a family who would burn the world down to protect her."
The man finally speaks, his voice unnerving. "This isn't over, Olivia."
"Oh, I think it is," I reply, raising the gun now and pointing it directly at him. "Because I'm going to remember your license plate. I'm going to remember your car. And if I ever see you again, I won't hesitate."
He backs away, hands raised slightly. "You don't understand. We're meant to…"
"Save it," I cut him off. "The only thing we're meant to do is never cross paths again. Unless you want to meet my father and about thirty of his closest friends."
The motorcycle engines grow louder, headlights appearing at the end of the road. The man glances toward them, then back at me.
"I'll be seeing you, Olivia," he says, then turns and darts back to his car.
"Not if I see you first," I mutter, memorizing his license plate as he peels away from the curb, tires squealing.
I'm still standing at the gate, gun in hand, when the first few bikes arrive. My father screeches to a halt, followed closely by my brothers, and my heart skips at the sight of Greyson. Their expressions shift from concern to surprise when they see me standing there, clearly unharmed, and far from frightened.
"Livie!" Dad shouts, leaping off his bike and rushing toward me. "What the hell are you doing outside your car?"
"Getting his license plate," I answer calmly, though my hands have finally started to shake with delayed adrenaline. I recite the numbers and letters I've burned into my memory. "Dark sedan, couldn't see his face clearly. But it's him, Dad. The same guy from LA."
Dad pulls me into a fierce hug, his body trembling with what might be fear or rage or both. Over his shoulder, I meet Greyson's eyes. His face is a mask of controlled fury, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
"You walked toward him?" Mason demands, incredulous. "Armed?"
I pull back from Dad's embrace, lifting my chin. "I'm tired of being afraid. Of looking over my shoulder. Of feeling like prey."
"So, you decided to confront an armed stalker?" Dad's voice rises with each word. "Jesus Christ, Livie!"
"I decided not to be a victim," I correct him, the gun still clutched in my hand. "I decided he doesn't get to terrorize me anymore."
Greyson steps forward, his eyes never leaving mine. There's something in his expression beyond the anger, beyond the concern, and it looks almost like pride.
"You're either the bravest or the most foolish woman I've ever met," he utters quietly.
