Page 98 of Dreadful

She arches her back, lips parting, and my own open.

She rocks back into him, and I feel the phantom pressure of her against my dick.

My fingers curl against the edge of the mattress, unable to get any closer.

Time ceases to exist.

The girl collapses next to Gage.

Pressure builds behind my ribs.

Closer, closer, closer.

The clock is winding down. Opportunity will present itself soon.

Corrine will come back. She always does.

Which means I need to be ready.

I don’t like making adjustments this late.

Every deviation creates another opportunity for failure.

Another variable to account for.

My gaze returns to the girl on my screen.

Perhaps that’s the problem.

The girl isn’t a variable anymore.

She’s become a constant.

THIRTY-TWO

BELLAMY

I perch against the edge of the workbench inside the garage and let my gaze travel around the room. Rafe's already found his spot against the wall beside me, arms loose at his sides. Cruz sits on a stool, spinning it one direction and then the other, his thumb worrying a scratch in the vinyl seat. Gage stands across from me with his hands braced on the table, practically vibrating with that restless energy he always has when it comes to pulling a job. Lola's shoulder presses against mine, solid and familiar.

And Bishop—Bishop stands at the head of the table with his arms folded over his chest, jaw set as he stares at the crude map of Westhaven I drew forty-five minutes ago.

The silence stretches. I look around at all of them—my sister, the Calloways, whatever the hell they are to me now—and try to find the right words to make this sound less insane than it felt at the café.

I break the silence when I can't take it any longer. “So, what does everyone think?”

Bishop’s scoff is a dry, ugly sound. “What do I think? I think it’s fucking crazy.”

His jaw is a hard line, arms locked over his chest like he was physically holding himself back. But his eyes cut away from mine the moment I look at him—fixed on the map, the wall, the grease stain on the floor. Anywhere but me.

I give him a smile that feels thin and sharp. “How very… helpful.”

“It’s reckless.” He shakes his head, gaze still nailed to the table. “You want us to move on the word of some random who just walked up to you. Smells like bullshit—like prison.”

My eyebrows lift. There’s an edge in his voice that I can’t quite place.

From across the table, Gage lets out a low noise, half laugh, half exhale. “Don’t hold back now, Bishop.”

Bishop’s head snaps toward him. “You suddenly itching for a cell, brother?”