Page 44 of Carte

Pain sliced through me, “I didn’t leave you, Dynamo. I had to check the house. I was always right here, with you.”

A tear slipped down her cheeks then, “With me.”

I took a step back, and guided Harley to her bed. She sank on it like she had no strength left in her body, her shoulders slumping down.

She was quiet. Too quiet, something my Dynamo never was, and I hated the silence that was engulfing her.

But I knew she needed time to process.

I sat down next to her on the other end of the bed. I couldn’t face her. Not yet. My insides vibrated with worry and fear. I could have lost her.

I had to call Chace and Max, had to have that fucking picture processed, and the feed checked but I couldn’t bring myself to move. I was powerless to stand up and get my phone. I looked down and could see my hands trembled.

For the first time in my life, fear made itself known. Not even when dad got killed, and Rory was attacked did I feel this pure form of that emotion. Not when Chace went undercover with the goal to dismantle the Mafia ring in Denver, and not when Alina or Sky lived through their ordeal.

I knew at that moment I wouldn’t survive losing Harley.

Over the last few weeks, she slowly but meticulously buried herself under my skin and there was nothing I could do about it.

She was quickly becoming the most important person in my life, and I needed to find the sick bastard who terrorized her soon.

I needed her safe.

In the back of my mind, I was aware that years down the line, I would recognize this as my turning point. Whenever I would wonder why I was alone, why I hadn’t lived a full life, this would be the moment that would ring true.

Because, even though I wanted Harley with every cell in my body, I couldn’t have her.

I couldn’t have her only to lose her.

And there would be no one but her.

I tried to breathe normally, tried to hide my internal turmoil for her.

But then she turned, and in a soft voice asked, “Will you stay with me?”

Chapter Eleven

Harley

My fingers stacked the stings of my guitar over and over again without any real melody. Usually, the quiet mornings and softly playing the guitar would be enough to bring me peace no matter what happened the night before. In all my years there was only one thing that brought me comfort. My music. But this morning, my trusted release didn’t come close. I flicked my fingers again, trying to get the sound to flow through me, moving my fingers over the neck, but only succeeding in making sound that grated on my nerve endings.

“Is it helping?”

I jolted and turned around at the sound of Carter’s voice, “What’re you doing?”

He arched his brow, walked around the couch and put the tray on the coffee table in front of me, “Making you breakfast like I do every morning.”

“Like I could eat anything right now,” I mumbled.

His expression softened, “Maybe you should rest for a bit.”

“Yeah, that would make it all better.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, and released a breath, “What would make everything better?”

Something was different about him this morning. I was used to him scowling at me, but that was usually coupled with a glint of amusement in his eyes. A flash of goodness told me that, even though he kept himself on a distance from me, he wasn’t at all detached like he wanted me to think.

And then I saw it. There was no spark in his eyes.