Page 20 of The Forgotten

Before I register that I’m moving, I jump off the bed as if it’s on fire. I am not staying in his bed for one fucking second longer than I need to.

“Seriously?” he asks. “If it helps, I don’t fuck in it. I go elsewhere for that.”

“Like I would be able to tell,” I mutter. “I don’t care where you fuck, because that’s not my concern. You can’t keep me. Regardless of what you think of my life, I clawed and fought for the privilege of having it.”

“Well, I don’t like the sound of that. Why were you pretending to be asleep earlier?”

“I needed to know if I was tied down or not,” I say, shuddering. The world is threatening to tilt from how fast I moved, and I’m definitely still drunk. Taking another deep sip of water, I glare at him. “I would rather kill myself than stay here.”

“I thought I was the dramatic one,” he sighs. “I think I should make you something to eat. My brothers just left, so it should be safe.”

“Your brothers are dickheads,” I say before I can help myself. “I want to go home.”

“You said that already,” he says, bored. “Little angel, you can’t go home.”

“I’m no one’s angel. Didn’t your brothers tell you I’m defective?” I ask, leaning into the crazy. I don’t really care what Gareth thinks of me.

I’m already rejected, and it’s clear that life can definitely get worse for me.

“I’m the defective one in my family, and you don’t look anything like me,” Gareth says. “I’m too loud, rebellious, don’t think, blah blah. You look like you knit when you’re not sucking down tequila with the boys.”

An unladylike snort escapes me because I rarely drink. Unless it’s a girls’ night with my daughter, then I stick to non-alcoholic milkshakes.

“Did you snoop through my house?” I ask. “It wouldn’t take you long to find my knitting needles?—”

“Oh shit,” Gareth says, his caramel eyes wide. “I wasn’t serious, but you definitely look like a knitter.”

Rolling my eyes, I curse under my breath as I see that I’m not wearing shoes. I’m wearing brightly colored socks, without my phone, arguing with a dark haired rogue. His scruff has salt and pepper running through it, and he’s riddled with muscles.

I’m swearing off all men. They all suck, and the only ones attracted to me are thugs. Tossing the empty water bottle on the bedspread, I begin walking toward the closed door.

I’m not the same woman that I was when I was kidnapped almost thirty years ago. I do not accept this. I’m out.

“The attitude is cute and all, but I can’t let you out,” Gareth says, the laziness in his body language changing quickly. In its place are muscles tensed and ready, and I begin to feel real fear sliding through my veins.

I was full of pissed off bluster before, but things are getting very real now.

“Too fucking bad,” I mutter, screeching as he bursts into motion. He’s fast, but I race to the door and gasp as I find it locked.

Wasting precious seconds, I manage to throw it open as I run. Gareth throws himself at my feet and pulls them out from under me, forcing me to land hard on the tile floor.

I’m not sure what happens to me, but between the adrenaline dump and the fear, I break. Kicking turns into hitting as he drags my body to him. My nails scratch his face as I scream, flipping my body so that I have better leverage, tears obstruct my vision, and I lose all sense of what I’m saying.

Gareth grabs my wrists wide-eyed, blood dripping down his skin as he pulls me tightly against him so I can’t move. A light slap across my face seems to sharpen the edges on what’s happening, and he shoves his nose against mine.

“Who the fuck hurt you, pretty angel?” he growls. “I may have kidnapped you, but this is too much crazy for what I’m doing. You said a name while you were fighting me.”

“I…what?” I hiccup, still struggling to get free.

“Mallan,” he says, watching me closely. “Your pupils are blown the fuck out with fear just from hearing that name. What did he do?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I croak out. “That's why I can’t stay here. I won’t. You can tell my daughter and granddaughter why my blood is on your hands when I kill myself. I bet that conversation isn’t one you’ll survive.”

“Why am I so attached to the crazy chick?” he mutters, yanking the cord in my sweatshirt free.

“It’s not crazy when people are actually out to get you,” I reply. Until recently, I had real life stalkers.

Once I see that he’s wrapping the cord around my wrists, I begin to yank my arms and buck against his body with renewed fervor. Gathering my resolve, I try to bite Gareth’s nose since it’s so close to mine, strangely enjoying his yelp as he throws his head back to get away from me.