My mind reels. I stare at the closed door. My heart is still pounding from the terror of that moment, waiting for her to explode, to drag me by my hair, to grab the nearest weapon and—
“Reagan?” Shane’s voice pulls me back. “Y’kay?”
I blink at him. “She...she didn’t hurt me.”
“Never again.” He sits back down on the bed beside me, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “I told you I’d take care of it.”
“No, you don’t understand.” My mother—the woman who has tortured me for thirteen years, who has made my life a living hell, who has beaten me and starved me and threatened to mutilate me—is scared of Shane Fletcher. My voice comes out shaky. “She’s scared of you.” I let the truth settle into my bones. “You’re the only person she’s ever been scared of.”
If Shane is the only boy my mother fears, then he’s the only boy who can protect me from her. He’s the only boy I can ever have.
“As she should.” A darkness touches his eyes. “Anything you want from now on, you tell me, and I’ll make it happen. You belong to me now, Reagan.”
Anything I want, he’ll make it happen. I didn’t know I was allowed to want things. But with Shane, I can. I stare at him in awe. This fantasy god who could make anything real with his power. This fae prince who could bend the world to his will with his magic. The bad boy who would burn the world down to protect the girl at any cost.
The thought should horrify me. Shane and I are never meant to be together. I’m thirteen. He’s seventeen. I’m Reagan and he’s Shane Fletcher. This is wrong. Everything about this is wrong.
But when I look at him—at the way he’s looking at me like I’m something precious, something worth protecting—I can’t bring myself to care.
“C’mon.” Shane stands and offers me his hand, that cocky grin back on his face. “Let’s go get some breakfast before she changes her mind.”
CHAPTER 9
Tristan
“Ashford!” My voice echoes off the garage walls as I storm back into the house. He’s in the living room, phone pressed to his ear, probably calling in more useless badges.
He holds up one finger. One fucking finger, like I’m some civilian he can dismiss. I reach him in three strides and knock the phone from his hand. It clatters across the hardwood.
“What the fuck—”
“Birdie’s car is gone,” I cut him off. “The bike is still here.”
“Any sign of struggle or breaking and entering?” He starts toward the garage, picking his phone up on the way.
“No.” I walk with him. “But see for yourself. You’re the detective.”
Latex gloves cover his hands. We stand in the garage, I on my phone, he playing cop.
“There is no sign of dragging here. No blood.” He glances at me in passing. “Is anything out of place or missing?”
My eyes roll. “The car.”
“Anything other than that, obviously?”
“Not that I know of. That fucking bastard must have carried her all the way here because there is no misplaced furniture or signs of disruption in the rest of the house either. He didn’t hotwire the car or it would have triggered the alarm. It’s connected to the security system. He must have found the keys, which she keeps in her office, by the way, put her inside the car and took off.”
“Unless,” he says slowly, “this whole scene was staged.”
“Are you out of your fucking mind? Why would Birdie fake her own abduction? She has everything. Money, fame, freedom. What possible reason could drive her to do that? And did you forget that Abel did exactly the same thing with Saldana? He drugged her and put her in her own car before he fucking killed her.”
Ashford’s cop mask slides into place. “I didn’t forget, but there are many scenarios to play here. Have you seen that note? It’s typed, not handwritten like the recent ones. Something is off. Maybe she wanted to disappear and start over. Maybe she realized her stalker was someone other than Abel and she was afraid. Maybe she knew who they were and went with them willingly or maybe she’s even protecting them. Nothing can be confirmed until forensics analyze the scene.”
“Detective,” I spit his title like it’s an insult because it is, “she’s in danger, and you’re wasting time with conspiracy theories? Birdie hated that car because Abel got it for her without asking for her opinion and didn’t even allow her to drive it. Then, when she kicked him out, he put a fucking tracker in it to know where she was at all times. If there had been anything willing about this situation, she wouldn’t have taken that car. Add that to the long list of things you don’t know about her.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets and glares at me. “If you ask me, she wouldn’t have chosen the bike either.”
“Because that one-of-a-kind bike she loves so much isn’t fit for stealth mode and can be easily found?”