Page 135 of Manic

“Forget I said anything,” I blurted, shaking my head. “I didn’t mean it. Do what you have to.”

“Sutton—”

His phone rang, cutting off his words, and I breathed a sharp sigh despite how tense my body was. It rang two more times before he finally pulled his phone out and glanced at the screen. His expression blanked right before my eyes, like a mask slipping over his face.

My stomach knotted.

He silently answered, pressing the phone to his ear, and Ronan’s voice carried through the kitchen.

“Tomorrow night?” Manic asked calmly, but braced his free hand against the island.

His fingers curled until his knuckles turned white. He stared at the counter, blazing a hole into the marble.

“That’s four days earlier than they agreed with,” Manic said tightly, then murmured, “Okay.”

It was blatantly clear that I was being dropped off with my parents tomorrow night. Good. The quicker, the better.

The phone shut off with a beep, but before he could utter a single word, before he could even glance at me, I’d already slipped from the kitchen to pack my bag.

35

SUTTON

The next night came far too quickly for my liking.

After our argument in the kitchen, I’d stayed in my own room with a bottle of whiskey clutched in my grasp, refusing to face Manic again. It burned my throat until sleep found me, though I’d woken up with a pounding headache, filled with regret.

Manic said nothing to me for the remainder of the day, instead focusing on phone calls and work with Axell. Frustration seeped through the walls though, and I felt every bit of it as the day crawled by.

Now as the elevator doors opened, the parking garage came into view. The air was stagnant and cold, only a whisper along the concrete walls. Once we reached the car, Manic snatched my only bag from me.

I gritted my teeth and with a whirl of bubbling motions, slipped inside his black Mercedes. It was mostly numbness, my refusal to accept this new scenario. After my bag was thrown in the back, Manic sank into the driver’s seat. The dashboard light reflected off the gun at his hip.

I wore something comfortable—jeans, sneakers, and a hoodie to ward off the chill. Manic wore his own hoodie, paired with black pants and thick boots. Similar to what he’d wear on a port run. My gaze went far away as the car took off, jostling my bones.

“Will you still talk to me… when you’re gone?” I asked softly.

The last few weeks drifted through the cracks in my mind, stirring the image of us together. Despite how much I hated the mafia, I’d liked spending my days with Manic. Other than him having security, he never made me feel like a captive. Most days, he hadn’t even locked my room.

“Do you want me to?”

“Yes.” Tears pricked my eyes. It felt like a piece of me was dying as silence filled the cabin. I curled my fingers, willing the shaking to fade. I was going to fucking miss him.

“Every day,” he murmured. “Until you’re sick of me.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded, unable to speak. Then, after a few dreadful minutes, we turned down an unfamiliar gravel road.

My pulse spiked.

I tensed and shot my gaze to Manic who white-knuckled the steering wheel. His jaw flexed, but he kept his stare fixed on the road. My mood plummeted, my sadness replaced with a heaping flood of fear.

“Where are you taking me?”

Dim lights shone in the distance, showcasing the faint outline of a secluded warehouse, hazed by the blur of snow. Multiple cars surrounded the building. Every inch of my body strung tight, panic flooding my system.

This was not my parents estate.

“Where are you taking me?” I shouted as my pulse climbed higher and higher. “You promised me—you promised me you wouldn’t hand me over to him.”