Page 92

Luna

A pulsing ache drags me from sleep. I stretch, wincing as a new kind of emptiness flares between my legs, every movement reminding me of how good he felt. How badly I want him to fuck me again.

Christ, that man excites me. I can still hear him—those low, guttural moans—making me feel like a fucking sex goddess. The only problem is that he doesn’t play fair. That wasn’t just sex. It was something else. A taking. A surrender.

Cade Quinn is a head trip, pure and simple. One moment, I’m fighting the urge to run screaming; the next, I want to drown in him until I forget my own name.

Groaning, I kick off the tangled sheets and shuffle to the bathroom, fumbling behind the towels for my phone. The screen lights up with notifications. Reese replied, thank God.

My stomach churns as I open her response:

Subject: WTF!

Oh, look who finally got bored of the silent treatment! And no, I don’t expect you to forgive me—in fact, I’d be disappointed if you didn’t milk this ad nauseam.

Now, about your little sitch, I know a guy who can track you down and get you out of whatever spot you've tangled yourself into—clumsy cow.

But listen, you have to check in when you say you will because this guy doesn’t mess about. He will murder your hot kidnapper and their grandma if they hurt you.

PS. You not attaching a headshot of said hot kidnapper for reference? That’s just douchebag behavior, Luna.

Love,

World’s shittiest, sluttiest ex best friend.

My throat tightens at Reese’s familiar tone, at the way she can still make me laugh even now. God, I’ve missed her. Our easy banter, the stupid jokes, the nights we brainstormed over Guilty Pleasures.

Then Delilah’s face swims into my mind, closely followed by Clemenza’s, and my momentary softness hardens into steel.

What is wrong with me? Getting nostalgic over one backstabber while two more almost destroyed me. Had it not been for Cade . . .

Cade.

My heart clenches in a fist as I remember last night again, but this time, the memories hit differently. The way he held me as I cried. The way he asked if what we did was okay.

It’s not fucking okay. How could it be?

I have no family, no friends, and I’m losing my fucking mind to a serial killer who makes me submit.

And the stupid tears are back. I strip off my clothes and stumble into the shower. The water can’t wash away the pain of betrayal or the gnawing loneliness or this inexplicable need for Cade, but at least it can drown my sobs.

I stay in the cleansing deluge until I feel the knot in my chest loosen enough to face another day of holding my guard up with Cade.

Finally, pulling on a pair of black jeans and a deep purple soft ribbed top, I reach for my boots—and freeze.

What the hell?

The heel of my right boot is broken.

I blink in shock and then pick it up for closer examination. The leather is shredded, and teeth marks are etched into the broken heel as if . . .

Saint chewed off my freaking boot!

Gritting my teeth in frustration, I reach for my new Louboutins when a chilling thought occurs to me. Returning to the ruined boot, I check the hidden slot in the sole. It’s empty.

My stomach twists as I dig frantically through my purse, but I already know it’s not there.

That damn dog ate my shoeandmy credit card.