Am I really going to stalk my own husband?
Jesus.
When I get home, I place my phone on the counter and just stare at it, debating my next step. A quick glance at the clock on the microwave tells me I just spent two precious hours talking to myself.
“Goddamn it!” I yell, picking up my phone. I grab my car keys and my coat and walk out of my house for the second time today. I slam my door shut and pull up my phone to click on the app. My forehead wrinkles when I discover that Alaric is currently in Hell’s Kitchen, not too far from the diner I worked at.
What the hell is he doing there?
I guess there is only one way to find out. I start the car and make the twenty-minute drive over, glancing at my phone every once in a while to see if he is on the move. The dot on my phone does show some movement, but it stays in the nearby vicinity. The gods must also want me to get my answers, since there is vacant parking space waiting for me. I turn off the ignition and stare at my phone, my bottom lip now raw with my constant chewing. He’s close. Real close. But where? Aside from a broken-down pawnshop and an out of business cleaners, there really isn’t much of anything on this street.
Could he be in one of the deteriorating apartment buildings? And if so, what is he doing? This area doesn’t indicate its inhabitants would have enough money to warrant private security. Hell, I lived just a few blocks from here, and I know that none of my neighbors had enough money to pay for their electric bill.
On shaky legs, I get out of the car, thinking that maybe I’ll hear his voice and it will lead me to him. A cold chill runs down my spine, and I’m not sure if it’s due to the December wind or my apprehension. I walk along the sidewalk, my eyes and ears peeled for anything regarding Alaric. My shoulders deflate when there is no sign of him, even though the app on my phone says I’m in the right spot.
I’m about to call it quits when a familiar grunt grabs my attention. My hackles rise when the sound of a body colliding against a wall reaches me. I swallow dryly and follow the sound into a hidden alleyway. With each step I take, the louder my heart beats in my chest. I don’t know exactly what I’m seeing, but the large, broad form in the shadows is without a doubt my husband. It’s only when he pulls himself into the light that I have a clear view of what’s happening.
I stand frozen in place as I watch the man I love beat a total stranger to a bloody pulp. The only thing that slaps me awake from my stupor is when Alaric snaps the man’s neck in one easy fluid move and then drops his corpse to the cold ground.
And that’s when I scream.
CHAPTER21
Alaric
Ascream splits the air.
High-pitched, horrified, and laced with fear, it makes me jerk around, wondering who has stumbled into the alley. I’m ready to bribe them when I suddenly seeher.
My wife.
My Layla.
Her face is as white as a sheet, and her lips are parted as her scream tapers off. Her eyes are wide and filled with confusion and fear as she stares at me like I’m a stranger. She flicks her gaze to the bloody dead man on the ground then back to me. I quickly step in front of him to block her view, knowing it’s already too late.
“Baby girl—” I reach for her, but she flinches.
Wincing, I drop my hands, realizing they are covered in my kill’s blood. “Layla,” I start, my voice gruff. My chest is heaving from the beating, and adrenaline still pumps through my veins, but another feeling courses through my body, one that is far more consuming—fear.
I love her. She’s my wife, my whole world. I never wanted her to see me this way. Not like this. To everyone else, I’m a monster, a killer.
But to her? I’m just Alaric.
The man who loves her.
My heart twists in my chest as I see that changing before my very eyes. She stumbles back in shock, holding her hand up to ward me off as if I’m a stranger. Like I haven’t held her while she cried, kissed her as she laughed, or felt her body pressed against mine. I actually see all those tender memories being replaced with this image.
Me, covered in blood, with a dead body at my feet.
“Who are you?” she whispers, her tone almost cold, numb.
She’s in shock.
Fuck.
That realization spurs me into action. Even if she hates me, even if she doesn’t want to touch me or be near me, I can’t let her suffer alone right now. I grab my phone and send a quick confirmation that the hit is done, and then I check the scene to make sure I’ve left nothing behind. Satisfied, I slowly walk toward her, like she’s a frightened animal ready to run from her prey.
Which she very well might.