And while I'm bleeding into the pavement, Sable and Bash would be alone. They would be vulnerable. The angel wing Idrew on her skin this morning would mean nothing if I'm not alive to protect what it represents.
They'd be wide open. Unprotected.
Hewantsme reckless so he can gut the rest of my life without lifting a fucking finger.
I shift my weight. Roll my shoulders back. Quiet. Controlled.
“I’ll be there.”
But make no mistake—
I’ve already made the decision.
I will destroy him.
And it won’t be with fists.
It’ll be slow.
Painful.
And so permanent, even the devil will flinch when he sees what’s left of Ned Stauder.
An email pings on my phone just as I’m elbow-deep in sticky-as-fuck honey glaze.
I nudge the screen awake with my pinky, squinting through the faint smear of olive oil across the glass.
Temporary Restraining Order Hearing Confirmed.
My stomach sinks. It’s scheduled for the end of next week. A judge will decide whether the temporary order on Ashley becomes permanent. She’s been notified.
Of course she has.
And now I get to spend the next ten days waiting for whatever unhinged bullshit she’s planning in response.
Perfect.
I need to talk to someone before I spiral completely.
I nudge the phone again and use a voice command to immediately call Demi.
She picks up on the second ring.
“Tell me you’re calm,” Demi says instead of hello.
“I just softened butter with my body heat because I forgot to take it out of the fridge and I’m thirty seconds away from torching this bird. So no, I’m not calm.”
She snorts. “Jesus Christ. Are you seriously roasting him a whole chicken, channeling full vintage housewife vibes?”
“I didn’t plan this. The grocery store ran out of rotisserie, and I panicked, okay?”
“You’re feeding a man dinner. You’re emotionally naked. You’re domesticating.”
“I’m not domesticating, Demi. I’m stress-cooking. It’s a clinical condition.” I mutter, grabbing a paper towel with my wrist because my fingers are coated in syrupy garlic goo.
“Well, call the CDC, because it sounds contagious. You got the ‘future-wife shakes,’ and it’s terminal.”
I whack another garlic clove harder than necessary, the papery skin exploding across the counter. I can’t remember how much I already added.
