Page 70 of Aftershock
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I press a kiss to her cheek. “It’s how I found you again.”
Her chin wobbles.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” She clears her throat, wiggles out of my hold, and takes my hand. “I’m tired, that’s all.”
That yawn, it’s adorable. It warms my wretched soul. For once, I inhale sweetness instead of death.
“Take me home,” she whispers when I don’t say anything.
That’s exactly what I do.
I walk her to her building.
Then I go to motherfucking Harold.
14
LILITH
Thirty minutes later, when I slip into the storage unit next to Alaric’s, I find him where I hoped he’d be. With Harold, seemingly about to hurt the bastard.
My body still reels from our encounter, my sex still sore. He ruined me in the best way possible. So much so that I nearly fell asleep in the shower.
If only he were there to carry me to bed, but—no.
Letting him go was the right thing to do.
So there he is, and here I am.
Both of us have changed clothes. He’s in a worn-out pair of jeans and a tattered T-shirt, gloves on his hands, while I’m in a pair of black sweats and a matching sweatshirt, peering into his storage unit.
Or should I say, into his makeshift hospital room. It looks like an underground version of one, with Harold attached to the monitors.
A twisted thrill rushes up my spine when his eyes bulge as he stares at Alaric.
At my man.
Mine, mine, mine.
Refusing to miss a second of this by daydreaming, I shake my head, silence my thoughts, and follow him across the room.
His long fingers drag a metal table into place in front of Harold. I squint, trying to make out what’s on it, just like I did yesterday. But even now that it’s closer, I still can’t tell what tools are laid out on it, only the bulky leather notebook.
The one Alaric is writing in.
Dammit. The peephole is too small. I’ll never be able to see what he’s putting on the page.
My curiosity spikes to unhealthy levels when he sets the pen aside and picks up a syringe.
Harold, much like me, catches the movement. Panic flashes across his face, his chest stretching against the ropes, his whimper muted by the duct tape covering his mouth.
Alaric ignores the piece of shit who beat his own mother.
There’s no doubt in my mind that Harold is guilty. Yesterday morning, Mrs. Tobin looked thrilled as she told Hope and me that she’d finally be moving into an assisted-living facility.
No one isthatexcited to leave their home unless that place isn’t safe for them.
