But she’s mine.
It’s all sorts of wrong and fucked up, especially when I’ve decided to keep away from her for her own good, when I’ve almost convinced myself I mean nothing to her anyway, and when I can’t…
Can’t stop thinking about her, wanting her so much my blood sings and my fucking soul aches.
“You don’t like him, huh?” Evan mutters, but he isn’t smirking, doesn’t seem to be in a teasing mood. “Ross said the same.”
“You’re testing your luck, you know that, right? Mentioning Ross.”
“Yeah, you wanna beat someone up today, don’t you?” He opens his arms, smoking cig in one hand, the son of a bitch, and stares hard at me. “Have a go at it. See if it makes you feel better.”
“Asshole.” I step away from him so that I won’t be tempted.
Without missing a beat, he slaps my shoulder and steps right beside me again. “Look, I know Ross is a dick. And I know you think he posted those messages on your door and harassed Octavia.” At my dark look, he shrugs. “News travels fast here. All I’m saying is… Ross has a big mouth on him, and a small brain in his head. He’s a bully all right. But he was never the kid who pulled the wings off butterflies and kicked puppies.”
“So I guess that proves he’s innocent, huh?” I let the sarcasm drip off my voice.
“No, it doesn’t prove jack. I’m only saying.”
And I’m listening. But what’s the use? Ross isn’t at work today, his daddy neither, and what is his connection to Alina Solokov anyway?
If this unholy tension headache ever gave way, I might be able to think, make the connection somehow. As it is, nothing comes to me. Nothing to link Ross with my past.
A past I thought interested no one, until now. A past I had never spared a thought for, a girl I’ve never felt anything for.
A tragedy I never foresaw.
But you never foresee that shit. It strikes out of nowhere, without warning. Just when you think the storm is over and you can breathe again, life grabs you and rattles you until your teeth shake loose.
Disease, accidents, death.
Love.
You never see it coming.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Octavia
Relapse.
That’s what they call it when you’ve take a step forward and two steps back, right? Backsliding.
Matt is backsliding. He’s turning back into the distant, brooding guy I met when I first knocked on his door. His gaze is wild and bloodshot, his hair a snarled mess, his powerful shoulders tense, his words clipped.
He’s pushing me away again. It’s as if the attack on me hit him harder than it did me. Which makes no sense.
Except… He lost his wife. And this stalker is leaving threatening messages on his doorstep and then attacking me. He’s probably worried about his kids.
Still.
It’s been two days since the attack, and he looks the worse for wear, his eyes ringed with black, his scent carrying that faint chemical tang it had when I first met him.
What is he taking?
I’ve arrived twenty minutes early because I was too restless and woke up at the crack of dawn. I barely slept a wink, in fact, because Merc went out last night, and although he sent a text message not to wait up, I was worried.
And now I’m worried again because I’ve rung the doorbell three times, but no reply.