Page 87 of Bound to a Killer

He scrapes at his jaw, nodding, nothing in his voice but irritation. “Whatever, I’m fucking out of here.”

I hear the front door slam behind him after he storms out of the kitchen.

My arms wrap around myself, my entire body trembling as I try, and fail, to hold back the tsunami of tears. This is my fault. He’s right. I did lead him on. I let him kiss me.

Something’s seriously wrong with me. I’ve felt it for weeks, watching passing cars on my way to school or dreaming ofhimsneaking into my house only to wake with the gut-wrenching ache of losing him all over again.

It isn’t normal.

I’m not normal, and I have no idea what to do except cry.

I’m still sobbing when the phone rings, yanking me back to the present. I fumble behind me for my phone, breath hitching as my eyes lock on the screen.

That same unknown number from before.

I don’t think as I answer. A burst of anger spikes through me, but it doesn’t last. My voice comes out warped, stumbling over hiccups and salty tears.

“Hello?” I say, voice strained. “Who is this?” I hate that I’m still crying, making a fool of myself for whoever’s listening. Not that it should matter.

Silence.

Nobody responds.

I’m about to hang up and block the number for good, but then a deep, familiar rumble cuts through the static.

Ledger.

25

ARIA

The world narrows to the sound coming through my speaker. Everything locks in place—my limbs, my breath, the cascade of sobs freezing over like a waterfall in winter, each drop hardening into an icicle sharp enough to pierce through my chest.

When he speaks again, my heart stutters. Recognition settles somewhere deep inside of me where fear heightens the longing, and longing only deepens the fear.

“Ledger?”

“Yeah, baby. I’m here.”

His smooth voice washes over me in cold waves, and every nerve in my body snaps to high alert.

It’s really him.

I lean across the kitchen island, fingers curling into the sharp edge of the counter as I try to steady myself.

How?

I don’t know if I said it out loud or just thought it, but he keeps talking.

“He made you cry,” he says, his voice gruff but still tender, hypnotic, and far too gentle for a man as callous as him.

Hot moisture prickles my eyes again. “I don't…understand.” My voice breaks, stuttering over another bout of hiccups. Trying to stop them only makes it worse.

A fresh tear slips free as I fight to catch my breath, my throat tightening around a pulse that chokes off the rest of my words.

Has he been watching me?

My eyes flick around the kitchen, searching every corner, but I don’t see any flashing lights that could be recording. My heart drums. He could’ve been watching me from outside.