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I open my eyes when Dara calls my name. She’s looking at me, concern etched on her face.
“Are you okay?”
I open my mouth to reply, but snap it shut when my phone vibrates again.
Dad: Get home. Now.
What the hell?
“I have to go,” I tell Dara. “I’m sorry to cut our visit short, but I’m needed at home.”
I get to my feet, and so does Dara.
“Is everything okay?” she asks, worry laced in her tone.
I look at her, my brows puckered into a frown. “I don’t know.”
She reaches for me, pulling me into a hug. I wrap my arms around her, and for a moment, I let myself soak up the comfort she’s offering. Pulling back, I slip my phone back into my pocket and give her a smile I don’t really feel.
“I’ll be back next week.”
She still looks worried, but she smiles softly. “Okay.”
I turn and walk across the room, barely hearing the chatter in the space from the other patients. My thoughts are consumed by Braxton and what my devil did to him. Had I not received the message from Dad demanding I come home, I would waithere at Hollow’s to find out his condition and go see him when allowed.
As I approach the door leading out of the rec room, I notice Jackson is back in his place in front of the painting. He stands with his tattooed arms crossed over his chest. His expression is blank, but his eyes are once again laser-focused across the room. I look back over my shoulder toward Dara. She’s sitting down again, sideways on the chair. She’s gripping the end of her braid with fingers so tight that I can see her white knuckles from all the way over here. Her eyes are locked with Jackson’s, and fear hides in their depths.
I don’t know what the hell the guy’s problem is with her, but I don’t have time to investigate it right now. I’ll have to look into it later. Maybe confront him and demand answers.
Marcelo is waiting for me at the car with the door already open, like he got a message from Dad, expecting me to exit the building at any moment. I say nothing as I slip into the back seat, sliding over to allow him to follow me inside. It doesn’t take us long to get home. Bishop’s and Cassio’s cars are in the driveway, along with another one I don’t recognize.
The car has barely stopped when I’m pushing my door open and bolting out. My black flats rush across the gravel ground, and I practically run up the steps. I don’t know why I’m in such a rush. Dad’s message didn’t seem dire. It was three simple words telling me to come home. But something inside me, that feeling I’ve felt since I woke up this morning, has my heart pounding with anxious nerves. Something’s happened, and I don’t think it’s only what happened to Braxton.
The door doesn’t make a sound when I push it open. I come to a stop just inside the doorway, my chest heaving with exertion. Instinct has me following the path straight to Dad’s office. The door is closed, and usually I’d knock before entering,but this time I don’t. I grab the knob, twist it, and push the wood panel open.
Several people are inside: Dad, Mom, and my brothers. Those four, I’m not surprised to see. What has my hackles rising is their expressions. Dad and my brothers look pissed. No, pissed isn’t a strong enough word. They look livid, angry enough to commit cold-blooded murder. Mom, on the other hand, looks upset.
Dad stands behind his desk, bent forward with his hands on the top. He looks on the edge of mass destruction. Mom stands beside him, one arm wrapped around her middle, the fist of her other hand at her mouth. Tears glisten in her eyes. Bishop and Cassio are over by the window. The former with his arms crossed over his chest, and the latter standing with his feet braced apart. Both look tense.
My gaze slides to the man in the center of the room. The one who has three pairs of eyes locked on him that belong to people who look like they want nothing more than to string him up by his entrails.
Ryker West.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
HIM
Two years.
I’ve waited for this moment for two years. Plotted, planned, and manipulated. Had a million pieces scattered all over the board and strategically placed each one down into their perfect little positions. That last piece was just shoved down Alexander’s throat, and he choked on it.
Savina will finally be mine. Mine to do with whatever I want. To mold and shape and conquer. To own and worship and destroy.
The wait has been long, and with each passing day, my patience has worn thin. But the end results will be worth the torture of not having her until now.
“What’s going on?” she asks.
She stands just inside the doorway, her eyes going from her parents to her brothers, then back to her parents. They only flicker to me once.