Page 221 of Powerhouse: Boxed Set
He knew who I was talking about. He swallowed hard but he shook his head. “Stay away from her. She can’t be around you.”
Turns out Tristan had bigger balls than I thought. “I’m not asking you again. Where is Elaine Constnatine?”
It was the Blue prick who answered. He answered in no time at all. “That little blonde is Elaine Constantine? Whoa, shit. She’s downstairs with Stephen Cannon.”
My teeth clenched. “If she was downstairs, I’d have found her. Where the fuck has she gone?”
“Don’t tell him,” Tristan said, but the Blue prick was staring at him with saucer eyes.
“That’s Lucian Morelli, of course I’m fucking telling him!” The guy shot his stare back to me, and he was shitting himself. He tossed me some keys from his jeans pocket. “She’s on Fifth Avenue, top floor of block twelve.”
The bass was still booming and people were still drinking when I charged back down into the kitchen. I tore my way through the drawers until I found what I needed. One hell of a knife slipped straight into my jacket, and then I pushed and shoved my way out of that hovel onto the sidewalk.
I didn’t have time to order a cab.
I didn’t have time to risk the cops showing up—even my Lucian Morelli get-out-of-shit-free card would take some time under this much commotion. Time I didn’t have.
I checked out my phone and looked up Fifth Avenue. A few blocks over. I could make it at a sprint, but it would take minutes at best. I just hoped Elaine Constantine’s pussy had minutes left to spare with a prick like that trying to get his hands on it. Even at a push it would be unlikely. Not if she was spreading her legs for him. And why wouldn’t she be?
Why wouldn’t she be spreading her legs for that asshole?
My stomach did a monster of a twist at the thought, and again I didn’t get it. I didn’t fucking get it. Why the fuck would I give a shit about Elaine Constantine spreading her legs for anyone?
The truth was there waiting.
I was desperate for her. Truly fucking desperate for her.
She sure as fuck didn’t belong to that loser, and if he’d taken her…if he’d taken what was mine…
The knife in my jacket was already crying out for his blood. Just a shame it wasn’t crying out for hers, too. Not anymore. Not until I’d taken every scrap of her soul and made it mine.
I set off at full speed, her clutch still clasped tight in my hand. I turned the corner at the bottom of the street, crashing into a couple walking up the other way, clearly ready to hit the party.
“Have you seen a girl with blonde hair? With some rocker asshole?”
They shook their heads, and the guy answered. “Nah, sorry, man. Ain’t seen anyone much this way.”
I was off without so much as a blink, scanning the street signs as I made my way closer. Fifth Avenue. Fifth fucking Avenue. I nearly got myself killed when a car came speeding the other way on Fourth Avenue, but it managed to brake just in time with a blare of the horn.
“Fucking asshole!” the driver yelled through the window.
My phone was directing me fast and clear, and my legs were carrying me with everything they had. My breaths were ragged, but not just from the sprint, it was from the rage. The challenge. And I hated to admit it. I hated to admit it with every piece of myself that I had. But it was fear.
I was scared to find Elaine Constantine taking another man’s cock.
When I turned the corner onto Fifth Avenue my blood was pounding in my ears. Block Twelve was down at the bottom end, and I was cursing all the way, still gripping that damn clutch under my arm as my damn knife bayed for his blood.
Block Twelve was a dive. The top floor had lights on in murky orange. I checked the main entrance but the keys didn’t fit the lock, and that’s when I saw it—the glimpse of a metal railing up by the top floor. The entrance doorway was up there.
I raced around to that staircase. I leaped up the rusty metal steps three at a time, and I could hear her. I could hear my Elaine inside there, and she was crying out.
Holy fuck, she was crying out. Crying out loud, crying out hard, crying out for help. My Elaine was crying out for help.
I’d never felt anything like the protective cesspit of rage inside me. It was scorching. Burning. Ready for the kill.
I didn’t need the key, just barged my way right in, and there she was, up against the wall with that asshole up against her, her dress hitched up high around her waist. He turned to face me with a sneer, but I wasn’t interested in his face, I was interested in hers. There were tears running down her beautiful cheeks, her eyes big and glassy as they saw me there…and the rage in me exploded. It exploded in liquid hate.
Maybe I could have let him live, if she’d been willing.Maybe.
