Page 56 of Entangled By You
“That’s enough. I can’t watch you yawn one more time!”Josie teases, but her voice is too warm to be anything but concerned.
“I’m fine,” I insist, though my voice comes out flat. I force a smile, even though it feels brittle, like my hair lately. “Maybe I should get up and walk around. Grab coffee from The Grind. Want something?”
“I’m good.” She tucks a strand of her perfectly styled hair behind her ear, studying me with that maternal gaze I wonder if I’ll be adding to my repertoire soon. “But you should head home, Lex. Rest. We’re done with appointments anyway. I’ll close up, then go spend more time with the family.”
The word punches through my ribs.Family.My stomach clenches, and I feel my expression twitch before I can smooth it over. Josie sees. Of course she does. Her lips press together, eyes apologizing without saying a word.
She doesn’t need to. She’s been nothing but supportive since I explained what happened, not leaving out a single detail. I figured if anyone could understand what it’s like to be in my shoes with a man tangled up in the Viper’s MC, it’d be her. But as the President’s wife, her loyalties are slightly more entangled than mine at the moment.
She’s not wrong, though, I need rest.
Because I haven’t really slept since Pierce left, the nights stretch too long, the bed feels too wide, and every creak of the townhouse sounds like a tale of my future. And even though I logically know that the threats are gone, logic doesn’t tuck you in at night. Logic doesn’t calm the restless ache when you roll over and the other side of the bed is cold.
Evan’s gone. Robert Montgomery is probably rotting in some deep grave on the outskirts of town, or whatever it is the guys do to deal with their problems.
I should feel safe. I really should.
But my body doesn’t trust my brain, and they’re both at odds with my heart. My body craves his touch—the missing intimacy of soft caresses and the intense euphoria of pleasure. My brain remembers the safety of feeling Pierce’s chest at my back, his steady rhythmic breaths syncing with mine until sleep pulled me under. But it’s my heart that screams the loudest, remembering his confession. He knew Evan was out of the picture while I was still unraveling, and decided to keep it to himself.
He texts me every single day, and every single day when his name pops onto my screen, my heart fractures all over again.
And then I do what any masochist would do in my situation: I reread every single last one, over and over, until the words blur. I relive the fight that started this mess and tell myself to let it go. That I’m being irrational, that what he did is no worse than what I did. That if I had any sense, I’d stop bleeding over a wound he painstakingly took the time to heal.
But sense and love don’t exactly walk hand in hand.
“You sure you don’t want help cleaning up? I can?—”
“Get. Go.” Josie waves her comb like a wand, her grin bright enough to break the heaviness pressing down on me.
I chuckle, lifting my hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’m going.” The sound feels foreign in my throat. It’s a relief to finally work for someone who cares if I burn out, rather than demanding it as standard practice.
I leave with a little less guilt, swing by The Grind, and order myself an iced latte with too much caramel drizzle. The cup is slick with condensation, the first sip bitter-sweet enough to wake me from the fog clinging to my bones.
Windows down, early summer air spilling in warm and fragrant with cut grass, I let the music thrum against my skin.For the first time all day, I feel almost… normal, almost like me. I even catch myself humming along, and the thought drifts in: maybe I’ll start painting the nursery tonight. Perhaps doing something other than dwelling on my own decisions will help.
But when I pull into the townhouse lot, normal evaporates.
A truck I don’t recognize is parked in the second space beside mine. It’s plain—no decals, no tools tossed in the bed—just in my space. My stomach knots instantly. Could be nothing. A neighbor’s guest. Someone who doesn’t know our spots are assigned.
Still, unease curls low in my belly. I thought I was past this.
I tell myself not to spiral, not to give in to the thrum of adrenaline crawling over my skin. Besides, Harlow’s been dropping by all week, and if she comes tonight, she’ll bring her bike and won’t even need a spot.
I breathe through the irrational panic and head for the front door.
The air inside the townhouse feels… wrong. I can’t quite place my finger on it, but the air buzzes. My bags slip from my arms, thudding onto the hardwood, the echo far too loud. Instinctively, my fingers drift to my wrist, brushing the tiny heart charm on the bracelet from Pierce. One press and he comes. One press and I’m not alone. I know it.
But my hand hovers there, trembling, before falling away like magnets repelling each other. I don’t press. I can’t.
You’re overreacting, exhausted, filled to the brim with hormones.It’s nothing.
I tiptoe further in, my pulse hammering loud enough to echo off my eardrums. My mind scrambles as I try to convince myself to reach for the nearest thing, so I at least have a weapon.
Maybe I should get a dog—a pittie from the shelter. Someone who’d meet me at the door, nub wagging, letting me know when the house is safe, and it’s not just my anxiety pulling tricks.
The thought soothes me for half a second. Then I hear it.
A thud, followed by a muffled curse.
