‘Not my fault, he deserved it.’ Ru grumbles, and I have to agree with him on that one.
Marcus would not be too happy to see Ruaridh’s face – well, mask — again since things got a little violent last time they were in a room together. Hence why I'm going alone this time.
‘Vish could go with you.’
‘No.’
There is no way I want that bastard anywhere near anything I get for my girl. Call me territorial but I want him as far away from Isla’s heart as possible and I’m not afraid to get my knuckles bloodied doing so.
‘Why are you so pissy with him recently? What’s he done now?’ Ru asks.
I grunt, not willing to answer that question. Instead, I turn my back on him and exit the room, stepping into the hollow corridor ahead.
Vish and I are fine. It’s not like I’ve fallen out with the guy, but I can’t be besties with him right now because when I see him, all I can think about is the cocky grin he was wearing when he walked my girl back to her room.
Many aspects of the stadium have been polished up. Where there was once cold, stony kiosk stands there are now wholesome weapons rooms, supplies stocked to the ceiling and various other necessities for life in the apocalypse, but the main entrances and exits are still bland and creepy. We keep them this way on purpose.
The last thing we want is for an outsider to manage a peek at our home and find out that the sinister rumours about us aren’t quite what they are made out to be.
Each and every one of us has a persona we slip on once we exit the stadium. An alter ego, one entirely darker than our lives amongst the protection of our walls.
With my mask firmly in place and weapons secured, I embrace my darker side, ready to step outside the safety of my home.
But just as I prepare to exit, I hear her voice calling my name.
Chapter thirty-two
Isla
Seriously, where the fuck is he? It’s not like Liam is a small guy that is easily hidden. He’s a fucking giant that you can spot from the other side of the stadium. So why am I finding it so hard to even catch a glimpse of the dafty?
‘Liam,’ I call out again.
I’m getting angsty now hence why I’ve resorted to calling on him like a banshee.
My back is holding up okay and I can only assume it's down to me continuing to train — that’s something one of the books said might help anyway. But that doesn’t mean I love lugging my pregnant ass around a football stadium looking for the dick headthat is responsible for getting me into this position in the first place.
‘Li–’
‘Yes, princess.’
I swivel my head so hard I'm surprised my neck doesn’t crack. My lips purse and I raise my eyebrows as peak displeasure radiates off of me in waves. I hope my irritation hits him like something radioactive or some shit — they went on about that stuff being dangerous in school, I’m sure.
Of course, the dick head isn’t phased in the slightest. Instead his eyes heat as he looks me over.
It’s like every time I get pissed off he gets turned on. He’s got something wrong with him, I'm sure, because that can’t be normal.
‘Where have you been?’ I cross my arms, not giving in to his lustful gaze, because what could be more important than doating on me?
Okay, now I sound like the crazy one.
‘Thinking about you, as always.’
Urgh, why does my chest have to flutter when he says shit like that? I’m supposed to be angry. Internally, I scold my melting heart.
‘What were you really doing?’ I press, suspicious.
He prowls closer and that’s when I spot the metallic glint of his knuckle dusters. I meet his gaze but all I see in return is desire.
