Probably not.
“You’re up early.”
I nearly jumped off the couch. I turned and Mack stood in the hall, looking in at me with a scowl. “Couldn’t sleep,” I said. “Where were you?”
“Had some errands to do for the family.” He strode past me into the kitchen. I got up and drifted after him.
“What kind of errands?”
“Nothing that concerns you.” He was cold and biting. His body was closed off to me and he wouldn’t meet my eye.
“What happened?” I pressed.
He poured himself some coffee then took a deep breath, his back still turned to me. The muscles along his spine flexed as he turned his head to the side and cracked his neck.
“Sometimes, my business is only for me.”
I let out a sharp breath. The bastard had me staying in his house, following his rules, and he couldn’t even have a simple conversation about what he was doing. I didn’t need details, didn’t need him to tell me all his secrets—but my life was hanging in the balance.
I didn’t really care what he got up to. I just hated being treated like I didn’t matter.
Because some dark, awful part of me thought I really didn’t.
“Yeah, well, right now your business concerns me.” I stepped closer.
He turned and took a sip of his coffee before putting the mug down on the counter. His eyes were almost blank, and I felt a quick patter in my chest.
“Stop pushing, princess.”
“What’s the matter with you?”
He moved past me. I glared after him and followed into the hall. I wanted him to explain why he was being a dick, but no explanation seemed forthcoming, and that only pissed me off more.
I felt trapped in this place. I didn’t want to be here—didn’t want any of this. I hadn’t asked for Mack to spare my life, and I certainly didn’t want Connor to get taken as a hostage and used against me.
I was powerless. I was in a cage and there was nothing I could do about it.
Mack paused at the foot of the steps. He looked back at me and his expression softened. I glared back at him and wished I could make him understand how deeply I was drowning in all this.
He opened his mouth to say something, then stopped himself, shook his head, and walked upstairs.
“Asshole,” I said softly.
I heard his bedroom door slam shut.
This was too much. The sound of leather against bare skin echoed in my brain, and I tried not to picture Connor tied to a chair in some dirty basement bleeding from multiple wounds all over his body.
I wanted to scream. Instead, I grabbed my phone and stormed outside.
It was a nice morning. The sun was bright and a cool breeze blew across my skin. I marched down the stoop, onto the sidewalk, and walked down the block, not thinking about where I was going. I had no plans, no clue what I wanted, but I was too angry to stay back in that house for a second longer.
But I didn’t get far before Mack’s warning came back.
There’s no telling who’s watching.
I crossed my arms over my chest and considered going back, but then the bastard would win. He’d think he could push me around however he wanted and keep information from me about his business, even if that business was to kill me.
No, I couldn’t go back right now.
So I called an Uber instead and went back to my apartment.
The place was just as cluttered as I left it, except the trash smelled terrible. I took it out then straightened up a bit. That kept my mind occupied for a while, and kept me from obsessing about Mack.
About why he’d be in a foul mood at nine in the morning, about what kind of errands he’d be running.
And why he wouldn’t tell me.
The bastard. The stupid bastard.
Even in my own apartment, I felt trapped. I collapsed back onto the couch and grabbed my AirPods from the coffee table. I shoved them in and put on the first song that popped up: “It’s Not Living (If It’s Not With You)” by the 1975. Jangling guitars, upbeat drums. I threw myself back against the couch and stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about Mack.
His hands on my skin, his fingers between my legs. The desperate gasp of my throat as I came.
I closed my eyes, trying to banish the flood of emotions.
For so long, I worked hard for independence. I moved out of my father’s house despite his protests and I paid for my own rent. I didn’t even live in Doyle-controlled territory, which my father hated with a passion, but if he had it his way then I’d shack up with the first eligible Doyle boy—one I wasn’t actually related to—and pop out a bunch of cuddly little future gangsters.