Page 1 of Victorious: Part 3

Chapter One

PHOENIX

The paper bag crinkles in my hand as I balance the coffee carrier and the container of bacon and eggs I picked up from the diner down the street. Clover had been craving bacon this morning, practically begging me to get some with those big doe eyes of hers.The things I do for my woman.I smile as I approach our ground-floor hotel room, key card already in my hand.

She deserves all the good things.

All the sweet moments.

All the reasons to smile.

Especially after everything we’ve been through, everything we’re still dealing with back home. This trip to Vegas was supposed to be us escaping the war back home. It also meant it was our chance to figure out what we are to each other without the weight of LA Defiance breathing down our necks.

It started as a weight, like every mile we drove from home was another rip in our hearts, but the closer we drove toward Vegas, the closer we got to each other, and those rips began to meld together. It finally made us brave enough to fight for each other, because the tension of home wasn’t so overbearing, and the oppression of the people against us was in our rearview.

Smirking at the fact that without this trip, I probably would never have had the balls to fight for Clover, I would have never been brave enough to stand up to Maverick. But somehow, now that Clover ismine, I know I would fight anyone for her.

Even her brother.

Because Clover means fuckingeverythingto me.

Chuckling to myself, I slide the key card and push open the door, ready to tell Clover how much I adore her, but somethingstops me cold before I even step inside.

A white sheet is crumpled on the floor just inside our door, discarded like garbage.

My blood turns to ice, my senses suddenly in overload as I shove open the door with force. “Clover?” I call out, stepping over the sheet and into our room.

The room is too quiet.

Too still.

“Clover?” I call out, setting the food on the small table by the window.

Maybe she’s in the bathroom?

But there’s no answer.

Then suddenly, Dracula comes tearing around the corner, his usually pristine black fur disheveled, his yellow eyes wild with panic. A frantic meow escapes his mouth as he circles my legs, then races toward the door, then back to me.

My breathing quickens as I take in the state of the room, my eyes searching for clues. The lock of the room is damaged slightly, looking like there’s been a forced entry.

Fuck.

“Where is she?” I ask the damn cat, as if he can answer me. But Dracula just keeps pacing, agitated, clearly distressed.

I continue to scan the room with military precision. The bed is unmade where we left it this morning, but her side looks…

… wrong.

Disturbed in a way that speaks of a struggle rather than restless sleep. Her phone’s on the nightstand where she always keeps it. If she had left on her own, she absolutely would have taken it. My woman never goes anywhere without it. Not just because of her social media obsession, but because of her glucose tracker.

Her diabetes supplies are still on the dresser, and my eyes flick to her glucose kit.

It too is still here.

Clovernevergoes anywhere without her emergency supplies.

“Clover!” I shout, checking the bathroom, the closet, even under the bed, like she might be playing some fucked-up game of hide and seek.