Page 100 of From Hell

“Why were you talking, smiling at that fucking bastard?” he grits out, irises darkened by shadow as his hot hands slam me into the wall. Anger collides with fear and wins, increasing my blood temperature a few degrees. I want to slap his hands away but dig my nails into them instead.

“Get off me, Jaxon,” I snarl back.

He grimaces. “There she is. My little rabid fox.”

“She never left,” I snap.

He gives a harsh laugh, the humor not reaching his black eyes. “Are you fucking Addison?”

I scowl up at him, but…fuck, he still has a way of taking my breath away. “How could I? I haven’t seen him since university.”

“But you want to?”

“Don’t be delusional. I hate him.”

“Just like you hate me?” A tug of animosity runs down my spine and pricks the sensitive part between my legs.

Not now. Sage is outside waiting. “I’m going into the powder room alone.”

His lips curl slightly. “If you take too long, I’m coming in after you.” With that, he lets me go.

Unlike the gold and green of the hotel lobby, the ladies’ room is pastel pink with a velvet borne settee dead center. Gold-edged mirrors lit from within line the wall leading up to rose-colored cubicles. A clerestory window looms at the far end.

I exhale, walk over to it, and give the release a shove. Cool air wafts through, bringing with it a slight drizzle. It opens onto the street, the rear of the hotel from the looks of it. It’s big enough to climb through, but I’ll need something to stand on. I also need to move quickly before Jaxon comes in. There is no doubt that he will.

Dragging the borne settee over to the window does the trick. I kick off my shoes, throw them and my purse through the gap, and then hoist myself up after them. There’s a tearing sound and an odd sensation of hundreds and thousands of small sprinkles poured over my legs as I drag myself to freedom on the damp pavement. Only I know it’s not sprinkles; it’s a waterfall of sparkling black diamonds.

Oh, well. No time to cry over a ripped dress. I need to find Sage.

The back street behind the hotel is shaded in various grays, lit only by the yellow, waning moon, and orange streetlamps. Trash dumpsters hide me from the main road. The aroma of the hotel restaurant and the stench of days-old bin bags curdles in my stomach, rising in my throat when a rat dashes out in front of me.

It’s not a street I would ever walk down alone.

Shaking, I swallow hard as I slip my shoes back on, feet now wet, and locate my purse. My phone has three new messages and several missed calls. I don’t bother listening to any of them. Heels clicking fast on the pavement, I hurry toward the main street, the wet wind playing havoc with my hair, skittering up my ribcage like the fingers of death, calling Sage.

“Laine, thank fuck. I’ve been calling you for ages.”

I slow to a walk, breathing a little harder when I get to the street the hotel entrance is on, and look left. The paparazzi have dwindled to only a handful of photographers smoking and chatting under the awning. A few cars drive past, but other than that, the road is empty.

“Where are you? Did you get the letters?”

“Laine, I’m still at your house. Well, outside it.”

I turn right, away from the hotel, and carry on walking despite the rain coming down again. “Outside my house?”

“You didn’t get my messages? Your cottage was on fire. Some of it still is. The firefighters are trying to stop it from spreading…”

Numbness spreads over my limbs as she rambles about how no one was hurt.

“Tigger?” Dad came and got Charlie a few days ago, but my cat was in the cottage.

“Safe. Your dad is here.” Relief sags my shoulders but only a touch.

“How?” I scratch out.

“They think it was curling tongs in the bedroom.”

“Fuck.” The letters.