I freeze, horrified, unable to take another step. I steal a glance toward my guest bedroom door and notice that it’s closed. Then, I turn around and sprint back up the stairs as my heart pounds in my ears. I reach my bedside table and grab my phone, unplugging it from the charger as I do. I scroll through my contacts until I find the one I want and hit call.
“Sloane?” Riven’s worried voice echoes across the receiver.
18
Riven
It’s been a long night that’s burned into the morning hours. And I’ve spent the last three hours watching Harvey Blackwater. Harvey is a disgusting criminal who resides in the rundown slums of Hollowcrest. He’s in the fentanyl trade and is responsible for several overdoses. The DEA hasn’t been able to track any of it, but I did. I’m currently watching him play what feels like his ten millionth round of poker with a friend out on his front porch. He’s probably a case of beer deep at this point, fumbling with the cards as his overgrown belly protrudes from his white sleeveless undershirt that’s riding up. He slouches back into a metal fold-out chair, cards in hand, as he laughs at something the other guy says.
I thought that by now he would have passed the fuck out and the other guy would have left. I can’t make my move with any witnesses around. However, I’m growing more impatient by thesecond, and my inhibitions are starting to fade away with the night. I’ll just … kill them both. I make a move toward them when I feel my phone buzzing in my back pocket. That’sstrange.I’m not sure who would be calling me at this hour. I pull the phone out of my pocket and immediately panic whenhername appears on the screen. I step away from Harvey and his friend, back into the shadows where I can answer her call.
“Sloane?” I answer in a whisper, panicking slightly.
“Riven!” she yells, dropping the professor part. “I—I’m sorry to call you at this time of the morning. I didn’t know who else to call.” Her breathing sounds labored, and my panic rises.
“Sloane, tell me what’s wrong.Now,” I order, already walking toward my car, which I parked a few blocks over.
“There was … I don’t know … apersonclimbing out of my living room window.” Her voice is strained, like she’s on the verge of tears. I pick up my pace to a jog.
“Are you hurt?” I nearly growl.
“N-no. I’m just shaken up. What if someone else is here? And … oh my God. Lydia! Lydia is sleeping downstairs. I need to go check on her.”
“Sloane,” I warn, “stay where you are. Do not move. I’ll be there soon.”
“O-okay. Can you stay on the phone with me until you get here?” she asks, voice shaking. I can imagine the tears falling down her freckled face.
“Yes,” I say, getting into my car and taking off. I break every law to get to her, racing against the panic clawing at my chest. So many thoughts run through my mind as I make my way to her. What if I’m too late? What if someone harms her? Or even worse …takesher? It would be a colossal mistake for anyone to attempt to take what’s mine. Every few seconds, I hear her sniffle, and it does little to ease the guilt clawing its way from my chest. I should have made sure she was safe. I shouldn’thave been off trying to murder a fucking lowly good-for-nothing criminal.
Entirely too many minutes later, I pull up to her apartment, nearly tripping out of the car on my way to her front door.
“I’m here. I’m coming in,” I say.
“But my door is locked.”
“It’s fine,” I say, hanging up to pick the lock. I’ll be installing a top of the fucking line security system after this. I’m pissed at myself for not thinking of it sooner. Once the door is unlocked, I pocket my phone and run inside. Sloane is standing upstairs against her railing, looking down. Tears are streaming down her face. I move to run to her, but she stops me.
“No!” I stop. “No. Go to Lydia first. Make sure she’s okay, please,” she begs, pointing in the direction of the closed door down the hallway to my left. Myselflesslittle nightmare. I want to go to her, and I have to physically force myself to walk in the direction of her best friend instead.
I open the door a crack and peek in at a figure lying in bed that appears to be asleep, unharmed. I close the door and do a quick scan of the remainder of the downstairs area. I hear Sloane barreling down the stairs. She clears the bottom step and runs straight into my arms, circling hers tightly around me. Her cheek is pressed firmly against my chest. I’m so caught off guard that for a split second, I stand there with my arms at my sides before embracing her back. I hold her against me, brushing my hand down the back of her hair. I rest my head on top of hers, and it feels like we’ve done it a million times. She’s sobbing into my sweatshirt, andfuckif it isn’t doing things to me. I give her, or maybe myself, a second to breathe and take it all in.
Sloane’s sobbing has slowed to a steady sniffle now. She lifts her head off my chest to peer up at me. I nearly fall apart at how broken she looks, at how the light in her fierce green eyes is currently that sickly pale color. At how her lower lip tremblesjust a little, still recovering from the shock. She’s so fucking beautiful, even when she’s broken. She finally speaks, releasing me from my reckless thoughts.
“You … came,” she says, looking into my eyes with her red-rimmed, puffy ones.
“I came,” I say, because apparently my brain has lost all ability to formulate a better response than that.
She stares up at me, eyes still locked onto mine. The faint moonlight filtering through her kitchen window illuminates her freckles most wondrously. I find myself wanting to kiss each and every one of them. My thoughts are clearly on the reckless train to nowhere good again when the energy shifts, and she pushes free of my embrace. I hate that my body immediately mourns the warmth of hers.
“Oh…my God. I am so sorry.” She backs away a couple of steps, wiping her hands over her still-damp cheeks. Now that the shock has worn off for both of us, I can’t help but notice her hardened nipples pressing against her silky black pajama top. She puts her arms across her chest, hiding them. I avert my gaze back up, noticing the faint flush creep across her cheeks.Fuck, what was she saying? Ahh … yes.
“You don’t need to be sorry, Sloane. I need you to tell me exactly what you saw.”
So, she does. We sit at her kitchen island as she recalls what she saw, running through the details. I let her get it all out before pressing her with any questions.
“Do you know anyone who would want to break into your apartment?” I ask.
“I don’t think so?” she considers. “I mean, my dad …” She pauses briefly to look at me, as if questioning whether she should voice her next words. “My dad wasn’t exactly a stand-up guy. He was … murdered. The case went unsolved and was ultimately closed,” she continues, looking down at her hands.
