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“You could travel with her.”
“For a guy who wanted to head butt me for breaking my promise, you sure seem happy about me being in love with your sister,” I say.
“You know I was trying to protect her. That was the only reason I made you swear you wouldn’t get involved with her.” Cash folds his arms. “Come on, now, you’re clearly working through your shit, and everyone with eyes knows that Hannah’s been crazy about you for years.”
“Doesn’t give me the right to tell her how I feel.”
“Is that it?” Cash asks.
“What?”
“That you don’t want to stop her from leaving? Or is it that you’re afraid.”
“I’ve already got a therapist, Taylor.”
“I’m serious. You’re afraid that she won’t love you back, aren’t you? Or that she won’t want to stay if you do tell her,” Cash says. “Well, fuck it, you were the one who told me to stop being an idiot about June. And look at me now.”
I bow my head. “It’s not that simple.”
“Oh, but it is,” Cash says. “Hannah might not need me meddling in her life or being overprotective, but she does need to know that you love her before she leaves town. She deserves to know.”
I don’t say anything back, but I glare at him like he’s an asshole.
Cash comes over and pats me on the shoulder. “Think about it.” And then he heads for his truck and gets in. He honks goodbye and drives off, while I stare into space. Finally, I get up and head inside to the laptop. I open it and check out the feed that shows me the front of Hannah’s house.
Ice travels through my veins.
A figure in a dark hoodie walks up the stairs toward Hannah’s apartment and opens the front door.
Forty-One
HANNAH
The front door clicks in the living room, and I let out a breath. “Marce? Did you find them? That was super quick.”
Footsteps move down the hallway and toward the bathroom.
I stare at the pregnancy test in my hands, thinking hard. There’s got to be a way to break this to Savage that won’t make him freak out. But he’s going to freak out either way, and if he takes it badly, it’s going to rip my heart to shreds. I just know it.
Marci enters the bathroom and stops dead.
“What’s wr—?” I look up, and thoughts about the baby, about my love for Savage, about how I feel about being pregnant, vanish.
A man in a hoodie stands inside the bathroom.
“Who are you?” The pregnancy test drops from my fingers. “What are you doing here?”
“Hannah Taylor?” His voice rasps.
I don’t recognize it. “What are you doing in my apartment? I’m calling the cops.” But my phone is in the living room.
The hoodie guy laughs softly. He reaches up and removes his hood, and I recoil. A scar runs down the left side of his face, twisting his lips into an awful grin. His eyes are a silvery gray, and his hair is too. There are tattoos down his throat, and one of them, a flaming skull, is familiar. Savage had that same tattoo along his rib cage.
“You are a pretty little thing,” he says. “I’m going to enjoy this.” And then he makes a grab for me.
I scream and jump up and away from him. But there’s nowhere to go. He’s blocking my path to the door, and I can’t climb out of the window—I’m two stories up.
Savage’s voice rings in my ears. Easy breathing. That’s it. Calm. Remember, move from the hip. Let that power flow through your body into your arm, and through his head.
