Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 33713 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 169(@200wpm)___ 135(@250wpm)___ 112(@300wpm)
I think about her. Really think about her. The way she looks when she’s serious, her brow furrowed as she tries to solve a problem. The way she looks when she’s happy, her whole face lighting up like the Strip at midnight. I think of the distance I’ve kept, the years of 'how’s school?' and 'tell Alana I said hi.' It all feels so small now. So insignificant.
I open the door and step out into the rain. The chilly water hits my face, but I barely feel it. I’m focused on the door to the building, on the stairs that lead to her apartment, on the woman waiting inside who needs me. I’m done being the distant best friend’s brother. I’m done being the saint. I’m the man who’s going to keep her safe, and God help anyone who tries to stop me.
As I walk toward the entrance, my boots echoing on the wet pavement, I realize this was always how it was going to end. Since the moment I first saw her, I’ve been just waiting for the world to give me an excuse to claim her. I hate that it took a monster to bring me to her door, but I’m here now. And I’m not leaving without her.
CHAPTER TWO
SERENITY
The air in our tiny Westwood apartment is thick with the scent of lavender candles and the sharp, clinical sting of lemon bleach. It’s a scent that usually makes me feel like I’ve got my life together, but today it just smells like desperation. I’ve scrubbed the floors twice in the last four hours, and my hands are currently trembling so hard I can barely hold the edge of the granite countertop. It’s the kind of shake that starts in your marrow and works its way out, a physical manifestation of the fact that I haven't slept more than three hours a night since Tuesday.
Tuesday was when the photo arrived. Just a simple digital file, sent from an unlisted number, showing me asleep in my own bed. The angle was from the window next to my bed. My bedroom is on the second floor. Kirk Voss, a man I once politely shared a highlighter with in Advanced Accounting and nothing else, had climbed a trellis just to watch me sleep. Now, every shadow in the corner of the room looks like a person, and every creak of the floorboards sounds like a footstep.
"Diesel will take care of everything, Ren," Alana says, her voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. She’s pacing the length of our living room, her long, dark curls bouncing with every agitated step. She looks like a caged panther in yoga pants.
"I know," I say, though my voice lacks its usual bite. I try to summon a spark of my trademark sass, the kind that usually keeps people at arm's length, but it’s buried under a mountain of exhaustion and fear. "But I’m not going anywhere. Diesel has a business to run. He’s a partner at the garage now. He doesn't need to be playing bodyguard for his little sister’s roommate."
Alana stops and fixes me with a look that's pure Walsh—blazing, stubborn, and entirely too observant. "You aren't just my roommate, Serenity. You're my best friend. And my brother? He doesn't just 'play' anything. Especially not when it comes to people he loves. And I can’t wait to see you tell him no."
I can’t wait to see it either. I turn back to the counter and find something very interesting to focus on in the grout between the tiles. My chest does the thing it always does when someone says his name with that particular weight. Three years of memorizing the exact timbre of his laugh from across a crowded room, and I still haven't figured out how to make it stop.
A heavy, rhythmic thudding echoes from the hallway, followed by a demanding knock. Before Alana can even reach the handle, the door swings open, and the apartment suddenly feels about half the size it was ten seconds ago. Diesel doesn't just enter a room; he owns it. He’s wearing his Steel Sinners cut over a black sweatshirt, and the scent of him hits me before he even speaks. It’s worn leather and that dark, woodsy spice that always reminds me of cedar forests and things that are too dangerous to touch.
He doesn't look at Alana first. His eyes find mine and stay there. Then, slowly, they drop to my white-knuckled grip on the counter's edge, travel up to my eyes, and move down to settle for a moment on the side of my throat. His jaw shifts. He doesn't say anything yet. I become aware that I've let out a long, slow breath I didn't know I was holding, and that my shoulders have dropped about an inch from where they've been living for the past few days.