Page 92

“Mine,” I whisper into her hair.

And this time, I sleep.

Chapter 20

The blare of my ringtone slices through the thick silence like a blade. I groan, burying my face deeper into the pillow, the sheets tangled around my legs like restraints. Everything aches — my temples, my throat, even my skin. My phone keeps buzzing somewhere on the floor, persistent and loud. I finally drag my hand out from under the covers and fumble for it, squinting at the screen.

Dad.

Shit.

I clear my throat before swiping to answer. “Yeah?”

His voice is calm, but I can tell he’s concerned. “Hey, kiddo. Just checking in. You alright? It’s almost four and I didn’t hear you leave your room.”

Four?

My eyes snap open, heart skipping at the realization. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

He hums like he doesn’t quite believe me. “Heading to the rink for the meeting with the guys. Let me know if you need anything.”

“Mmhmm.” I hang up before he can ask more questions and flop onto my back, kicking off the blanket. My mouth tastes sour, and my body’s heavy like I spent the night drinking. But I didn’t. At least, I don’t think I did.

Dragging myself upright, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and stretch, joints cracking. My thighs sting when I shift. Sharp. Raw. Like rug burn, but lower. I wince and glance down at my legs, at the faint lines and bruises on my inner thighs. Panic stirs.

I stagger toward the bathroom, flicking on the light. My reflection is a mess — mascara smudged, hair knotted, lips swollen. But it’s the edge of my hip that catches my attention. I turn, lift the oversized T-shirt, and freeze.

A tattoo.

A fresh, angry, inky mark sitting high on my skin. Letters, script-style, bold as hell.

Property of Eli.

“What the fuck?” My voice echoes in the tiled space. I rub at it like it might smear off. It doesn’t.

My stomach flips. A knot tightens behind my ribs. This isn’t a joke or some messed-up dream. It’s real. And permanent. That asshole branded me like I’m some kind of possession.

Rage spikes fast, clearing away the last of the grogginess. My phone’s still in my hand. I punch in Eli’s number, pacing the bathroom with the kind of restless fury that builds in your chest until you want to break something. It rings once, twice, then dumps me to voicemail. I try again. Same result.

I don’t even bother leaving a message. My thumb hovers, then lands on Caleb’s name.

He answers after two rings. “Didn’t expect to see your name, bunny. You miss me already?”

“Have you seen Eli?” I ask, skipping the small talk.

There’s a pause. “What, you two fighting? You call me up to play mediator already?”

“I’m not playing anything. Just answer the question.”

His laugh scratches like sandpaper. “I don’t keep tabs on him. Not my job. If you’re looking for him, try the Reaper party tonight.”

My throat tightens. “Are you fucking serious?”

“Watch that mouth.” His voice dips, lower, darker. “You know I don’t like being talked to like that.”