“And we’ll be masked,” Ellie adds. “No one will know who we are, even if they’re looking for us.”
“This could be a trap,” I say.
Normally, I’m levelheaded, able to see the entire picture instead of just the minuscule details that everyone else is hung up on. It’s like when I’m designing a dress. I focus on the piece as a whole and then work inward, adding diminutive flares and details to bring my vision to life.
But this time…
The muscles in my shoulders are so tense, they physically spasm, the full reality of what Ellie is about to do wreaking havoc on my insides.
“I don’t think it is a trap,” Ellie tells me evenly.
Dom nods in agreement. “My father is a duplicitous man, sure, but I don’t think he’s trying to set us up. The sick fuck simply wants me to take over the family business—and he believes using Ellie will be the way to do it.”
“It’s bloody idiotic,” I bite out. Shaking. I’m shaking. Why am I shaking? I can’t seem to stop the tremors that reverberate through me.
And since when is Dom on Team Bring Ellie Directly to The Divine One? I want to punch him in the face, and a part of me resents the fact that my first thought is one of violence.
“It’s the only way to get to Fischer. What do you suppose we do? Hide the rest of our lives?” Ellie asks, and though her words may be acerbic, even bitter, her tone is gentle.
“Yes,” I snap, taking up Ryker’s stalled pacing. Unfettered fury pulsates through me. I pass Zane, who watches me with wide eyes. As a general rule, I’m not the type of man who blows up in a fit of anger. That’s not me.
But this…
This isElliewe’re talking about. Her safety. Her life.
“I think it’s someone’s time of the month,” Zane mock-whispers to Ellie, and I fucking snap, whirling on him.
“How can you make a joke at a time like this?” I throw my hands in the air, resisting the urge to deck him across the face. “Do you not give a shit at all that Ellie is putting her life on the line? That she could die?”
Zane’s smile doesn’t gradually slip off his face—it disappears in less than a nanosecond. There and gone faster than a bullet shooting from a gun. In its place is an intensity I’ve only ever seen reserved for when we’re cutting people apart or burying bodies. The madness in his eyes morphs from a mere ember to a blistering inferno that sears my flesh.
“Do noteversay that to me again,” Zane warns, his voice low and deadly, teeming with unspoken promises. His eyes narrow. “You won’t like what will happen next.”
“Knock it off!” Landon tries to stand but wobbles slightly. Ellie is on her feet in an instant, one arm snaking around his waist in an attempt to keep him upright. He shoots her a grateful look before refocusing on us. “Both of you!”
“Oh, fuck off!” I snap, whirling on him. I don’t know why I find him a suitable outlet for my anger. I’m not mad at him.Honestly, I’m not. But I have so many emotions inside of me that I feel like a bloated storm cloud hovering on the horizon, gray expanding in every direction, just waiting to release a torrential downpour on the unsuspecting population far below.
“Beckett, I realize you’re upset—” Dom begins, taking a measured step toward me. He stares at me like I’m a live wire whipping around and sparking against anyone who comes too close.
I hate it.
And I know I can’t stay here a second longer. Not with my emotions so turbulent. Not with rage coiling inside me like a hungry beast. The last thing I want to do is say something I’ll regret to the people I love most in the world.
With a growl, I spin on my heel and stomp out of the room, trying to keep my head held high despite the seventy-pound weight on my shoulders, pressing me into the ground.
Irritation thrumming through me, I move toward the room I’ve called my own during my time here, grab my sketchbook, and move through the hotel in a perpetual daze until I finally find a spot away from everyone else.
The concrete is cold against my thighs, but I barely notice. My sketchbook balances on one knee, the edges of the page curling in the breeze that blows through the hollow ribs of the half-built hotel. This particular room smells of dust and metal. Overhead, scaffolding groans gently as the wind pushes it, and somewhere behind me, a loose tarp flaps like a tattered flag.
I press harder with the pencil, the graphite scratching across the page in angry strokes. I’ve redrawn the hemline four times already, each iteration tighter, sharper, like I can slice away the feeling building in my chest if I just get it right.
Her dress.
I’m imagining her dress.
For Ellie.
For the woman who owns me…and is doing everything in her power to take herself away from me.