Angerrunsinhotwaves under my skin. A tightness winds around my ribcage, threatening to suffocate me. It’s crushing. This heaviness of knowing the reason Cora was hurt was because of me. If I had just controlled myself, not acted on impulse, Rune wouldn’t have laid a hand on her.
I raise my eyes to the bathroom door where she’s hiding, then drop to my large shirt and boxers I have next to me, ready for her when she decides to come out.
I just want to get her into bed. Care for her. Keep her safe.
“You realize this is your fault,” Harlow says, like the guilt hanging over me is thick enough to see.
“Roughly ninety-nine percent,” I agree, “but I’m not shouldering blame that isn’t mine.” My pointed look turns his features hard. “You’re a part of this too.”
My words piss him off even more, and he spins away, raking a hand over his short-graying hair, to stare at the closed bathroom door. Guess he knows by forcing her to return to Rune, not fucking saying or doing anything to stop Rune fromhanding Cora over to Zane, makes him just as guilty as the rest of us.
We’ve all sacrificed her safety for this mission. We’re all to blame.
“I need to talk to him,” Clyde says, resuming his pacing. He can’t seem to sit still. Moving from the couch next to me to pacing the length of the room as he mutters then says, “But I don’t know if I can after what he did.”
My chest squeezes. Just the thought of her being hurt gives me that tight sensation zapping through me, and I grip my thighs, counting breaths, forcing oxygen past the knot. The beast inside me rattles its cage, hungry for blood. Rune’s blood. If I give in to what it wants, I’ll be satisfied, but we’ll never get what we need. What Reaper needs from this mission.
The clack clack clack of Clyde’s shoes on the concrete floor matches in time with my finger tapping my thigh. When I realize I’m doing it, I curl my fingers into a fist, feeling the control I have over that monstrous thing lining my insides slipping away.
I unclench my jaw and exhale slowly. “We all have to face Rune soon.”
“Don’t fucking remind me,” Harlow mutters and resumes his pacing. “He still hasn’t contacted me. He just fucking left her there, like…” His voice trails off. There’s no need to say it.
Considering the frantic state Harlow was in when he returned with her, I can only imagine the condition he found Cora in when he went to get her from her condo. I keep seeing her, the purple-black bruise spreading beneath her right eye, the lump on her forehead. My stomach lurches every time I think of Rune harming her.
I never checked his location until it was too late. That knowledge is going to sit with me for the rest of my life, tucked away with all the other horrible things I’ve seen and done.
Our Little Red was being brutally assaulted, yet again, by her abuser while I sat here drinking and feeling smug. The tortured look on Harlow’s face when he carried her into the factory has me terrified she’s lying about the extent of Rune’s assault. I’m not sure I can handle the reality. How she’s survived him is beyond me.
The scrape of Clyde’s shoes against the concrete floor drags my focus back to him, and the look he gives me could cut glass. His jaw works, and a vein pulses at his temple. The anguish he’s dragged around for hours has turned into rage, and it’s pointed at me.
I deserve it.
I failed. It was my job to keep her safe, and I fucking failed.
After a moment, he peels his gaze from me, and continues pacing. I eye the vodka bottle still sitting on the coffee table in front of me, wishing I could drown myself in it. But it won’t do anyone any good. Cora, least of all.
I need to focus. Come up with a plan. Sitting here wallowing in guilt will accomplish nothing. Staring at the monitors upstairs does me no good either, even though I want to track Rune’s every move. We wasted precious time monitoring him after I tucked Cora into bed, watching him move from his club to his house, then back again.
Tracking him tells us nothing. Sitting here waiting for Cora to get out of the shower is a waste of time, but I refuse to disturb her, despite Clyde’s insistence that I check on her. She needs space. To be alone and process what she’s endured. Even though every atom in my being screams to stay close to her, she needs a minute.
“Is she still in the shower?” I ask, eyeing the door Harlow’s hovering near.
“If you mean is the shower still running, then yes,” Harlow snaps. “But I don’t have eyes on her, so I don’t know.” He pointsat the door. “You need to go in there with her before I do. And I know for a fact, my being in there would only upset her more.”
I shake my head, staring down at my phone, resting face down on the coffee table, wishing for a message from Reap or Strike, or any sign to tell me what I should do next. As much as I want to grab it and check for a message or Rune’s movement, I don’t pick it up.
It’s a waste of time.
“She has a fucking head injury,” Harlow says. I don’t even have to look at him to feel the hole he’s boring into my skull with his blame. “What if she gets dizzy and falls?”
“If she needs help, she will call for us,” I say, even though that is the exact reason I want to be in there with her. But I force myself to remain still. I may not know the violating touch of hands that are supposed to protect, but I know what it feels like to need to cleanse yourself of vile things.
My phone vibrates with yet another incoming alert, and I cave, snatching it up from the coffee table. The camera set up outside Rune’s house shows a live feed of Rune’s car pulling into his long driveway, the iron gates sliding closed behind his black SUV.
Gnashing my teeth, I toss the phone down. It skitters across the table with a harsh clatter. My temples throb as I reach for the remote instead, that tightness returning to my chest. He’s just going home. Going about his business as if nothing happened.
The phone buzzes again with another alert, but I leave it face-down. If I obsess over every single movement, I’m going to go mad.
