Chapter 32
ANNA
Ipaced the aisles of vinyl like a caged animal.
Hours had bled together since Darius left. I'd dusted every surface, scrubbed the windows until they gleamed, retrieved the bat from wherever it had been flung and secured it back under the counter.
The shop looked pristine. Untouched. Like Darius had never broken in at all.
But it felt wrong. The air was different. Or maybe I was different.
My skin buzzed with restless energy, too tight over my bones.
I couldn't sit still. I'd picked up my guitar at least ten times, settled onto my usual stool, strummed maybe two chords before setting it down again and resuming my relentless pacing.
At this rate, I'd wear a hole straight through the carpet.
Deep breaths didn't help. Distraction didn't help. Nothing helped.
All I could think about was Darius walking out that door after I'd given him Peregrine's name. And my mother's parting threat.
The entire pot of coffee I'd consumed wasn't helping, but it was easier to blame the jittering under my skin on caffeine than admit it was pure anxiety.
I knew something was happening. I just had no idea what.
I didn't know exactly what Darius would do to Peregrine. No, that was a lie. I knew. And there was nothing I could do to stop it.
My mother's plans were just as obvious, and just as unstoppable. There would be consequences for whatever she was scheming. Dire consequences. And she'd make damn sure other people paid the price for her choices.
She'd find a way to blame me. She always did.
The helplessness clawed at my chest. There had to be something I could do to prevent the fallout, but what?
Call my mother? She wouldn't answer. Even if she did, she wouldn't listen. My opinions, my wants, my needs—my entire existence—meant nothing to her. She'd made that clear enough.
I had secrets that could destroy her, but she'd never believe I'd actually use them.
As for Darius, it wasn't like I had his number. What was I supposed to do, Google "Darius Ivanov" and hope for a hotline? 1-800-brATVA? Or maybe this was more supernatural—did I need to draw sigils at a crossroads and summon him like a demon?
I snorted at my own ridiculousness. Then went right back to pacing.
I threw my hands up, laced my fingers through my purple hair and pulled until my scalp stung. The sharp sensation helped center my spiraling thoughts.
I had to do something.
But what?
The shop had been dead all morning. No customers, no calls. Nothing. A few items on the eBay store had generated interest, but no sales yet.
Outside, Georgetown looked picture-perfect. Fall had arrived in full force—scarves, pumpkin spice lattes, people laughing and chatting as they headed to the university or work.
Normal. Everything looked completely normal.
Then a black SUV rolled past, and my pulse spiked.
Georgetown was crawling with them—transporting senators, congressmen, millionaires. But I only cared about one.
Something clicked in my brain. There was a way to reach him. I was missing something obvious.
I couldn't call him. Didn't have his email. But I had his men.
When Peregrine attacked me, I'd screamed for help, and Darius's soldiers had burst through that door within seconds, guns drawn.
He'd told me he'd be watching. Over and over, he'd said it.
What were the chances his men were out there right now?
Could it really be that simple?
If I walked outside and demanded to speak to Darius, would they listen? And if they did, what the hell was I going to say? "Hey, sorry, but my mother's planning to betray you. Oh, and please don't murder my fake ex-boyfriend?"
I tugged at my neckline, shoved my sleeves up to my elbows. The thermostat read seventy-two degrees, but I was burning up. My stomach churned. My throat went dry.
My mind played out every worst-case scenario on a loop.
What if they laughed at me? What if they roughed me up for having the audacity to demand anything? That seemed unlikely, given how Darius had reacted to Peregrine's work on my face.
But what if they called him and he was furious?
What if demanding to see him earned me another punishment? Or worse—what if I told him about my mother's betrayal and he took that rage out on me?
I was still too sore for another spanking. And whatever my mother was planning to sabotage was clearly more important than me trying to run or yelling at him.
But what if I said nothing and things got worse? If she didn't vote the way he wanted, would he kill me anyway?
Was he planning to kill me after the vote regardless? I was a loose end.
He'd taken off the necklace, but that didn't mean I was safe.
The second the thought formed, I dismissed it.
I didn't know why, but deep down, I knew Darius would never truly hurt me.
He'd punish me, yes. Spank me, definitely.
But even when he used that belt, it was calculated.
Controlled. He could have done real damage, but he didn't. He delivered the sting without breaking skin, without leaving lasting marks.
He was a sadist, not a psychopath.
I didn't think he'd kill me. But that didn't mean there wouldn't be consequences.
And the consequences of staying silent might be worse.
If his men were watching, they'd have seen my mother storm into my apartment this morning.
My mother. That was the real problem.
If I told Darius what she was planning—or what I thought she was planning—what would he do to her?
I dragged my fingers through my hair, making it even messier.
Damned if I did. Damned if I didn't.
Fuck it.
I'd rather face the consequences of my actions than live with the weight of doing nothing. At least if this blew up in my face, it would actually be my fault.
I stepped outside into the cool breeze and warm sun. I didn't see his men, but that didn't mean they weren't there.
"I need to talk to Darius!" I shouted.
A group of college students across the street stopped and stared. When I shouted again, they scattered.
Two men materialized almost instantly. Black suits. Sunglasses. One with a scar tracing his jawline.
Tall. Broad. Silent.
"I need to talk to Darius," I repeated, steadier this time.
One of them nodded and turned away, phone already at his ear. Russian poured out in clipped tones.
I went back inside.
I'd tried. Maybe that was enough.
Now it was up to Darius.
I picked up my guitar, trying to lose myself in the music. But every few minutes, my eyes darted to my phone.
No messages. No missed calls.
An hour crawled by.
Then Darius walked through my door, covered in blood.
It speckled his hands, sprayed across his white shirt in a chaotic pattern, and dotted his sharp jawline.