Milo
She has left her dorm and is heading toward the parking lot.
How do I know?
Because I borrowed a page from Arlo’s book and had the feed from the front entrance of the dorm building routed directly to my phone, set to alert me every time motion is detected.
It is, admittedly, irritating as hell that I am notified whenever Ophelia, Adelaide, or that girl Piper so much as step outside, but sacrifices must be made.
Which means I know everything my girl does.
Well, almost everything.
Except when she is inside her dorm, a detail I intend to remedy soon, because I should not be left blind where she is concerned, and the thought of not having eyes on her at all times sits badly with me.
When she disappears behind those walls and I lose sight of her, my skin begins to itch, my temper coiling so tightly I am ready to kill someone simply to bleed the tension away.
I know she has been running for hours, because I followed her, and I had to use every shred of restraint I possess to stop myself, to keep from dragging her back before she managed to exhaust herself to death.
My chest kept doing this strange squeezing, my stomach dropping again and again, and when I finally google searched the symptoms the answer said it meant worry.
Which cannot possibly be true.
Because I don’t fucking worry about anyone, and worry would imply care, and care is not something that runs through my veins.
I have never had anyone to care for, and even if I had, how could I allow myself to, when care is a weakness, a liability, something your enemies can seize and use against you, and I would be damned before I ever allowed that to happen.
And yet.
It did.
When it comes to Octavia Bellanti, what lurks inside me is much more than obsession.
It is a need.
Liability or not, it doesn’t change the fact that she is mine.
She simply doesn’t know it yet.
And if my enemies come for her, I will make certain they are eradicated from the planet before they manage to take a single step in her direction.
After her run I assumed she would finally go to sleep, and I was already in bed myself when the notification came through, and it never once crossed my mind that it might be her.
But it was.
So I pulled on my clothes, shoved my feet into my shoes, and was out the door in record time.
It fucks me up that I don’t know where she is going, especially this far past midnight.
I need to know everything there is to know about her.
If I could open her mind, peel it apart and see every thought, every memory, every secret she keeps buried inside, I would do it.
When I reach the parking lot I remain out of sight and watch as she slips into a car, and a crooked smile plays at my mouth when I realise it is a different vehicle from the one she used to follow me with.
I did my snooping, and I discovered she has several vehicles scattered around the island, none of them registered in her name, and not a single one I would ever associate with her.
The engine roars to life and, within seconds, she is speeding out of the academy grounds, disappearing into the night.
I make my way to one of her cars parked at the far end of the lot, after all, she has blown my precious Lamborghini into flames.
And here it is.
My fucking obsession with her, apparently without limits.
I would kill a motherfucker for daring to so much as look at my car the wrong way, I once shot a snob for bumping into me at a red light, and yet here she is, walking away entirely unharmed after blowing it all to hell.
It takes me less than a minute to break into her vehicle.
And then I am after her.
She is driving toward the private airstrip, and my brows knit together.
Just as she arrives, a helicopter is already waiting, its blades turning slowly, the pilot seated inside.
But something else catches my attention.
Another vehicle sits in the otherwise near empty parking lot, positioned just a little too carefully, standing out where it should not.
I have a feeling about it.
And I am proven fucking right.
Because the moment Octavia steps out of her car and closes the door, two men surge from the shadows.
They are masked, dressed in dark clothing.
My teeth grind as I watch them advance toward her.
And I am already out of my own car.
A blade whistles past Octavia’s ear, nicking her lightly, and I cannot help the dark curl of a smile as it buries itself cleanly in the throat of one of her attackers.
My girl has the other man in a chokehold, and when she looks at me, her brows lift in surprise, and it costs her.
Because the moment her attention slips, he manages to twist free of her grip and drive a hard blow into her stomach.
“Fuck no.”
My Makarov is in my hand before the words have even left my mouth, and I put a bullet straight through his head.
He drops like dead weight.
I don’t lower the weapon. I turn it on the hand he used on Octavia and fire again and again, until there is nothing left of it.
Octavia narrows her eyes at me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she snaps. “Are you following me again?” the exasperation is unmistakable in her tone.
I tilt my head slightly. “I believe the words you are looking for are thank you, love, for saving me.”
She rolls her eyes. “I had it under control.”
“No, you didn’t.”
The smirk is gone, replaced by a surge of anger so violent it makes me want the man alive again, just so I could kill him once more for daring to lay a hand on what is mine.
“He touched you.” My voice is barely human.
I step toward her, then another, until I am so close her vanilla scent floods my senses, and despite everything a groan slips from my throat.
Her pink nails gleam in the dim light, still wrapped around one of her blades.
“I am so fucking angry with you.”
“Why?” she demands.
“Because,” I say, brushing a fallen strand behind her ear, forcing myself not to go back and empty the rest of my magazine into the corpse, “you lost focus and let a man hurt you.”
The thought of her bleeding makes something savage twist inside my chest. If she had been hurt any more… fuck, I cannot handle the mere image.
“You should not have done that.”
“Done what?”
“Let another man touch you.”
“He hit me,” she snarls. “Not fucked me.”
I close the distance even further, until there is no space left between us, my hand rising to circle her throat.
“I. Will. Kill. You,” I say, holding her tighter, “if you ever dare speak of you and another man ever again.”
My grip hardens. “I will burn said man and proceed to fuck you on his ashes, just so you never forget exactly who you belong to.”
Her expression changes at the word fuck, as though a bucket of ice has been thrown over her, and she steps back abruptly, knocking my hand away.
She stares at me for a long moment, hatred and loathing spilling off her in waves.
I only smirk.
A reaction from her is a victory in my book, even when that reaction is hate.
Because it still means she feels something.
“Don’t follow me,” she says, her voice hard, taking another step back.
I take one after her.
“I mean it,” she snaps.
I smirk. “You are taking a helicopter fuck knows where, and you think I am just going to stay here, especially after someone just tried to kill you, kidnap you, or hurt you,” I finish on a growl, because the thought of someone daring to lay hands on my girl sends me spiralling all over again.
I advance towards her.
“Markev,” she says, lifting the blade in front of her, “if you take another step, I will force you to stop in another way.”
A rough laugh slips from me.
“Baby, not even death will stop me. I will come hunting you… and you still will not be rid of me.”
“Markev,” she warns again, “one more step.”
I smirk.
“Bellanti, if you haven’t noticed by now, I love pain, especially the kind you create.”
So I ignore her and close the remaining distance.
The next second, a blade flies into my thigh. Another follows instantly, burying itself in the other.
Blood pours down, soaking into my jeans.
I only smirk as my little spitfire turns and runs, and seconds later she is already climbing into the helicopter.
“Stupid, really,” I mutter to no one, “to think a blade in my leg would stop me from coming after you.”
My eyes drop to the wound. “But at least she didn’t aim for the heart.”
A deranged smile spreads slowly over my face.
“As much as she says she wants me dead, I think she fucking loves me,” I murmur. “She simply doesn’t understand yet that what she is feeling is not hate.”
“It is, quite definitely, love.”