Page 60 of Taken Off Camera
Which doesn’t make it easier to bear.
My throat tightens. “I’ll handle it.”
Saint scoffs, gesturing around the apartment with a sweeping arm. “Is this what you call handling it? Sitting here moping?”
“I’m not moping!” The defensive words burst from me.
“Oh, yeah?” Saint picks up an empty takeout container, waving it in my face. “So, what do you call this? What about those?” He points to the pile of unwashed clothes peeking from under the couch. “Or that?” The overflowing sink comes next.
“I call it a rough week,” I snap, snatching thecontainer from his hand and crushing it in my fist. “Not everyone copes by punching walls like you do.”
“At least punching walls accomplishes something.” Saint grabs the trash bag I’d started filling and knots the top with violent efficiency. “Better than whatever this is.”
“What do you want from me?” I clench a fist over the knot in my stomach. “To stream again? With that psycho watching?”
“I want you to do something,” Saint counters. “Anythingbesides sitting here feeling sorry for yourself while a stalker terrorizes you and your Alpha ghosts you.”
“He’s not ghosting me.” The lie tastes sour on my tongue. “He left a note.”
Saint barks out a laugh. “A note? What are we, in high school? ‘Sorry I can’t make the dance, Jenny?’”
Heat crawls up my neck. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Whatwasit like?” Saint moves into my space again, forcing me to tilt my chin up. “Tell me, Micah. Explain how an Alpha claims you during your Heat, then leaves a fucking note and disappears for five days.”
My palm connects with his chest, shoving him back a step. “My Heat came early. We didn’t havetime to talk through everything like we should have. It was my bad!”
“The fuck it was! You didn’t do anything wrong.” Saint catches my wrist before I can shove him again. “He did. Now what are you going to do about it?”
“What can I do?” The question burns with helplessness. “He’s logged out of the security system. He won’t answer his phone. He’s gone.”
“So that’s it?” Saint releases my wrist with a disgusted sound. “You’re giving up? Letting them both win?”
“I’m not?—”
“So, what are you going to do about it?” Saint challenges again. “About him, about the stalker, about your life?”
“I don’t know!”
“Yes, you do.” Saint steps closer, his face inches from mine. “You’re Micah fucking Barnes. You’ve survived every shitty hand life’s dealt you. You built a business from nothing. You’ve tracked down stalkers before.”
His words pierce the fog of self-pity I’ve been wrapped in for days.
“So what’s it gonna be?” Saint asks, softer now. “You rolling over, or are you fighting back?”
My temper flares brighter. “I’m not rolling over.”
His eyebrow lifts in challenge. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah!” I step into his space now, chest bumping his.
“So, what are you going to do about it?” The question isn’t mocking or challenging this time.
I stomp to my coat closet, pushing aside winter boots and a vacuum cleaner I’ve used maybe twice. Behind an ancient mop bucket sits a battered red toolbox Saint left after he attempted to teach me basic home repairs.
The metal handle feels cool and solid in my grip as I haul it out, the tools inside rattling. I flip open the lid, rifling through wrenches and pliers until my fingers close around a flathead screwdriver.
I hold it up, the metal catching the light. “For a start, we’re taking down all his cameras.”
