Page 7 of Awakening the Beast
He pauses and side-eyes me, his jaw flexing. “I told her not to,” he says, his tone steady, unapologetic.
“And why the fuck not?” I yell. “Don’t you think I should have been one of the first people to know?”
He turns his face slightly to the side, dropping his hand away, and studies my demeanor. “I wanted to be the one to fucking tell you, Wren.”
I close my eyes, trying to shield myself from the emotions swarming inside me, before laying my palms over my face. Everything feels so out of control.
“I’m so fucking confused,” I mutter, my words muffled behind my hands.
Silence stretches between us, thick and unsettling. My mind begins to wander, pulling me back to Cree—the innocent heart caught in all of this and eyes water as the reality of the situation hits me all over again.
I drop my hands and look at Arlo. “How do we tell Cree that his dad is somehow alive?” I ask, unable to hide my concern. “We both watched you be lowered into the ground, Arlo. I worry about him.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and after a heavy sigh, he meets my gaze. “Leave it to me.”
I give a sharp nod and turn around, my hand closing around the handle of the bathroom door.
“Where the fuck are you going?” he demands as I pull it open.
“I need some space and a shower,” I respond, not looking back as I step through the door and close it behind me.
He doesn't say anything more or follow me as I stride toward the shower, letting the towel fall away from me. Once inside, I turn on the water, and the warm cascade envelops me, almost soothing against my skin. I press my forehead against the cool tiles, allowing the water to mingle with my tears. Each droplet feels like a reminder of not knowing what the truth is, or what is real anymore, and that is the most devastating part in all of this.
He’s already keeping secrets from me, offering only small pieces of the truth. If there’s any chance for us to make this work, I need complete honesty. We can’t rebuild something if we’re not fully committed, if we’re not both all in. There’s no point in trying if there’s a lack of trust.
The thought of possibly losing him again—this time without understanding the full picture, without knowing who or what was behind it all—is unbearable. If I had known how serious the situation was, if I had been made aware of the dangers, maybe I could have done something, at least begged him to have extra security.
Once I’ve finished in the shower and managed to compose myself, I dry off and make my way to the counter to blow-dry my hair. I gaze at my reflection with a detached look asmy brown hair whirls in the blast of air, scattering in every direction.
When I’m finished, I wrap the towel more securely around myself and head out of the bathroom. The bedroom is empty, and Arlo is nowhere to be seen, clearly now giving me some space. I notice a text on my phone,which rests on the bedside table. I walk over, pick it up, and read the message from Dominic, who is asking about how we’re going to handle Izzy, given the time and resources she’s wasting.
Raising an eyebrow, I type a brief response.
[Meet me at the spot.]
I text Joe to come and collect me, then toss my phone onto the bed. The fact that Izzy still hasn’t given a location, or any other useful information for weeks is irritating. The longer I let this drag on, the more I’m seen as weak, and in the Elite World, weakness is unacceptable. It’s time to confront this issue head-on and deal with it once and for all.
I head to my walk-in wardrobe and select some lacy underwear, black tights, and a sleek black dress that will discreetly cover my bump before sliding on a long, black coat. Once dressed, I slip into a pair of black heels and make my way to the arms room. Entering the code, I step inside and retrieve a pistol from its place before exiting the bedroom.
As I stroll down the long, shadowy hallway, I shove my phone into a small bag along with the pistol and my thoughts drift toArlo. I wonder where he is and what he’s doing, but I push the thoughts aside, knowing I need to focus now more than ever.
I try to move silently down the marble stairs in my heels, gripping the banister to keep my steps as quiet as possible. If Arlo hears me, he’ll undoubtedly try to stop me.
When I reach the bottom, I freeze, my breath catching in my throat. There he is in the distance, covered in the dim light of the kitchen. He is leaned over the counter, his back to me, his head down as he swirls a glass of whiskey his hand, the ice inside clinking while he mindlessly turns the amber liquid into a whirlpool.
The sight of him—shirtless and lost in thought—strikes a chord deep inside me. As my heart twinges with sorrow, my eyes drift over his powerful, tattooed back. I notice the burn scars on his left shoulder, the tattoos now a patchy gray mess, and the scar of the bullet wound that nearly ended him.
The sight takes me back to that horrific night, and I’m overwhelmed by memories of how I desperately fought not to lose him. A tear slips down my cheek as I remember the panic and how helplessness I felt.
He lifts the glass to his lips, tilts it back in one gulp, then hisses and slams it down on the counter. Staring at him and seeing him so broken and vulnerable, makes me ache to comfort him. I want to touch him, to hold him close and tell him everything will be okay, that we will be okay, but the truth is, I don’t feel like I’m that person anymore. I don’t have the strength to heal his wounds when mine are still so raw and open.
If his story is true, then I can only imagine the pain he’s going through, believing that coming back would mend both of us immediately, but this reunion has shattered those hopes since it’s been nothing like either of us expected.
We’re both so fucking lonely, standing right in front of each other yet feeling miles apart. We’re close enough to reach out and touch, yet the space between us feels impossible. We’re both hurting, but neither of us can bridge the gap or make the pain go away.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to push away my emotions, then glance at the door as headlights pierce through the glass panelling. I take a deep breath, readying myself before quietly making my way toward the door.
But as I reach for the handle and begin to pull it open, I’m startled when his large, tattooed hand slams it shut with force above me. I close my eyes and lower my head.
