Page 42 of Killaney Blood

He stopped, and I went about my night. TV dinner and listening to screaming from my upstairs neighbors, at least it sounded like sex this time.

Then, as if he fucking knew, I got into bed and he texted.

Call me

I rolled my eyes and turned on my side, but sleep was the only thing that didn't come. I tossed and turned, going in and out of consciousness.

I protect what's mine

His words echo in my head, crawling under my skin. The audacity. The entitlement. The way his eyes darkened when he said it, like he actually believed it.

His?

Wrong.

At least my mind thought so. My body, on the other hand, betrayed me in that moment. I didn't even realize I'd clenched my thighs until they were sore. Damn pathetic. After everything I've been through, I'm still wired to want men like him.

The heat that curled in my belly when he grabbed me, it's like, how do you want to fight and fuck someone at the same time? How can you want two completely different things?

You're so messed up,I tell myself.Just get up already.

Twenty minutes later, I'm brushing my teeth, and the phone buzzes again.

Last time I'll ask

I spit toothpaste into the sink. "Screw you," I mutter, and turn the phone face down.

The apartment feels too small suddenly, like the walls are closing in. I need to get out. I need air that doesn't smell stale. I need space where I'm not waiting for that damn phone to ring again.

I pull on jeans and a faded gray hoodie, grab my wallet and keys, and head for the door. I tell myself I need groceries, but really, Ijust need to be anywhere but here, trapped with my thoughts of him.

The morning air is crisp, the streets wet from an overnight rain. I pull my hood up and shove my hands in my pockets, walking fast. My breath clouds in front of me as I walk.

Three blocks from my apartment, something shifts in the air. A prickle at the base of my neck. Years of living in constant danger have fine-tuned my senses, and right now, they're screaming.

I'm being followed.

You learn to clock a tail after years of being owned.

I don't turn around. Don't make it obvious I've noticed. Instead, I slow my pace slightly, listening for the footsteps behind me. They adjust, slowing to match. I speed up again. So do they.

My fingers curl around my key ring in my pocket as my heart rate kicks up, but I keep my expression neutral.

There's a grocery store ahead on the corner. I duck inside and grab a basket.

I pretend to browse, placing random items inside: apples, a loaf of bread, a carton of eggs. Through the gaps in the shelving, I watch the door.

He enters after me.

Dark coat. Mid-forties. Something about his eyes. I feel like I know them.

And then it clicks.

Albanian.

Not one I ever treated, but I know his face from a safehouse. The kitchen, maybe. Who knows, but I know I know it.

Why the fuck would he be here?