Chapter 22
Break time.
If I can call standing in the back room picking grease from my nails a break.
The scent of scorched rubber and motor oil sticks to me. I sniff my armpit and sigh. No wonder Wolf prefers Jag over me. Stray animals smell better than I do.
I wipe my hands on a rag that’ll never come clean, pull my phone out of my back pocket, and thumb the screen awake.
Still no texts from Wolf.
His radio silence chews a hole through my ribs. Because I know where he is and who he’s with.
The thought makes me itch. Not just because Jag is a narcissistic, homicidal manwhore. Not just because he can and will hurt Wolf.
It’s more selfish than that.
Jag has taken everything from me, and I can’t stand the idea of him stealing Wolf, wrenching Wolf’s savage protection away, and hoarding all that wild devotion for himself.
I shut my eyes. Squeeze the phone until it creaks. Open them again. Swipe down, and check my notifications.
One new message.
Carol.
Of all people. Carol-fucking-Samuels. My ex’s mother. The woman who never looked at me without pursing her lips like I was a sour sip of boxed wine. Too cheap. Too dirty. Too rough around the edges. Too much of everything unworthy for her perfect little Gavin.
I hesitate. What could she possibly want? I haven’t talked to her since I fled my wedding and left her with the bill. Maybe she wants reimbursement.
That’ll be a cold day in hell.
I tap the screen, and a link pops up.
An obituary.
Gavin Michael Samuels, 34.
Beloved son. Cherished friend. Taken too soon.
My breath strangles. My knees turn to wet paper, and the greasy rag slips from my fingers.
Dead.
He’s dead.
The shop carries on with the din of ratchet guns, clanking wrenches, and the guys shouting across the bay. But it all fades beneath the resounding toll of Dead, Dead, Dead.
How?
I scroll down, scanning over the funeral home address, candle emojis, and phrases like In lieu of flowers…
A quick Internet search doesn’t confirm how he died, but I know. The last year of my life is buried, six feet down, because that’s what Jag does.
There was the foster brother who fingered me behind the garage when I was fourteen. Two days later, a car accident. Hit and run, they said. Jag was stealing cars by then.
And the soldier who took me out for beers when I was fifteen. Deployment cut short by a bar fight gone too far. Stabbed.
And the mechanic who taught me how to rebuild a carburetor when I was sixteen.
He was twenty years older than me, and I shouldn’t have had sex with him, but he gave me hope I could be more than an unloved orphan girl.
Then he hung himself. Rope burns on his neck.
But I know that knot had Jag’s fingerprints all over it.
And there were more. Every man who’s ever looked at me, touched me, or tried to love me is gone.
Jag circles my life like a man-eating beast, tearing out throats in the dark and ensuring no one stays long enough to matter.
He doesn’t kill me. He kills them. One by one.
So yeah, I don’t need the obituary to spell it out. Jag dealt with Gavin, and I don’t know whether to cry or laugh or smash this goddamn phone into the pavement.
I loved Gavin. Or I thought I did. My feelings are muddy, but I certainly didn’t wish him dead.
Why did Carol send me this text? She’ll get nothing from me. If she’d known the truth about her son, that he preferred men, she would’ve cut him out of her life long ago.
Fuck her.
Jag, on the other hand, probably thought he could keep this from me.
I open our text chat and send the obituary link to him.
Three dots instantly appear. Disappear. Appear again. Pause. Gone.
Nothing.
After a long minute of waiting, I know that’s the only response he’ll give.
I shove the phone into my pocket and grab the nearest work order. Brake pads on an old Toyota Tacoma. Easy and quick. I throw myself into it. Lug nuts, calipers, pads swapped out. When I’m done, sweat slicks my neck and grease lines my wrists.
“I’m out.” I toss the keys onto the counter and meet Chester’s eyes. “Not feeling well.”
He studies me, probably wondering if I’m hungover or just being a bitch. Then he nods.
I wipe my hands, grab my jacket, and step out into the rain.
Carl and Jasper break off from the exterior wall and stride toward me.
“Evening, Miss Rath.” Carl motions for me to walk ahead of him. “We’re taking you directly to the island. Wolfson’s orders.”
“Where is he?” My pulse ramps.
“Waiting for you there.”
Relief and dread swirl in my gut. Wolf hasn’t texted. Hasn’t called. But he’s waiting for me.
Why didn’t he just come here?
Something’s wrong.
And that something is watching me.
I feel him before I glance at the alleyway behind the guards.
Jag leans against the brick wall, rain sluicing down his hair, dripping over his face, and drenching his denim jacket until it clings to muscle.
His dark, unblinking eyes cut through the haze. Lightning cracks overhead, and he doesn’t flinch. Thunder shudders the ground, and he doesn’t twitch.
He just stares. Possessive. Accusing. Like I belong to him.
Part of me always will.
Even now, after Gavin, after all the bodies in Jag’s wake, I feel the tug, the familiar pull toward the man who raised me, hurt me, saved me, and stalked me my entire life. He’s inked into my existence, permanently etched into every fear, every memory.
I hate him.
I love him.
I’ll never be free of him.
My breath shortens as his gaze bores into mine.
There’s no cruelty there. No sneer. Just raw, lethal protectiveness, heavy as a hand around my throat.
It’s the same look he wore when we hid in the pantry the night our parents died.
The same look he wore when he beat my first foster brother to death.
I want to talk to him, demand answers, scream accusations, and pound my fists on his chest until he coughs up the truth. Who are his enemies? What does he want with me? Will he kill Wolf like all the others?
Carl and Jasper close ranks, more assertive than usual, funneling me toward the harbor. I let them move me along, but my eyes stray over my shoulder, remaining fixed on Jag.
He removes the phone from his pocket and taps the screen.
A vibration buzzes against my palm, and I look down.
Jag: How’s your boy?
Me: Don’t touch him.
Jag: I didn’t.
The dots bounce. Pause. Bounce again.
Jag: Can’t say he didn’t touch me.
My breath punches out, and I slam to a stop.
“Miss Rath.” Jasper nudges me forward. “We need to—”
“I need to answer this text. Give me a minute.” Subtly, I peer toward the alley and glare at the shadow still lingering there.
Me: What did you do?
Jag: You know and you’ll think about it tonight when you’re alone.
The words blur. My throat burns. I almost drop the phone.
Why am I surprised? This is what he does. As long as he lives, he’ll steal every person I care about. He steals them. Then he kills them.
Me: Why can’t you leave me alone? Please. Just walk away. Let me go.
Jag: Little Bird, walking away from you is the one sin I’ll never commit.
Little Bird.
Shimmery, traitorous warmth flushes my cheeks and sweeps through my bloodstream before doubt crashes in.
He speaks in venomous lullabies, always half-truth and half-hook. He knows how to string me between craving and loathing until I forget how deadly he is.
This has to stop.
As Carl and Jasper shift impatiently, scanning the perimeter, Jag sinks deeper into the shadows. I know he’s still there, watching me from the darkness. I feel him more than I see him, that glaring, overprotective aura embracing me too tightly. Suffocating.
I tear my eyes away and let the guards guide me down the street.
Their presence forms an iron wall around me, but I still feel my stepbrother, pursuing his prey, his jaguar eyes slicing into my back, and branding me with a vow I feel in my bones.
Soon.
I can only assume that means one thing. The sooner he has me, the sooner he can throw me away.
At the pier, tourists crowd in clusters. Locals haul crates, and fishermen shout over gulls. All the usual chaos. But amid the bustle of bodies, someone stands out.
Not a fisherman. Not a tourist or commuter. Not anyone with a purpose. Just an average man wearing average street clothes. Dressed to vanish into a crowd.
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t fumble for a phone or glance at the sky. He just stands there, still as a statue, his eyes fixed on me like I’m the only thing that exists.
It’s not his face or his stance that lifts the hairs on my nape. It’s his watchfulness. He tracks me like it’s his job. Like a thug. Only he doesn’t look like a thug. Doesn’t need to. I feel it in my tingling scalp and dampening palms.
My steps falter as I peer over my shoulder. My gaze arrows through the sea of people and immediately lands on Jag. But his focus isn’t on me. It’s locked on the man.
Carl and Jasper notice the threat, too. They tighten around me instantly, their postures humming with alertness.
“Keep walking.” Jasper’s assertive grip belies his casual tone. “Don’t slow down.”
“Faster, Miss Rath.” Carl presses close behind.
I match their pace, my nerves unraveling. But I’m not afraid. Not with Jag in sight. I may never be safe from him, but no one else will hurt me while he’s near.
“Kai! Let’s move.” Carl shoves me onto the gangway and raises his voice at the captain. “Get us off the pier now!”
The engines hum alive, Kai already at the helm, as we climb aboard. The deck tilts as he guns it, propellers churning froth, speeding us away.
I grip the rail, knuckles white, eyes on the crowd shrinking behind us.
Jag floats through the swirl of bodies, effortlessly gliding toward the man with a predatory calm in every step.
But the man… He’s gone. Vanished.
Only the echo of his stare lingers, crawling over my skin, a cold reminder that Jag might not be the only one stalking me.