I just make damn sure no one else does either.
And if the club thinks I’m seeing her, if Bethany sharpens her knives over rumors, if Hell decides I’m sloppy, let ’em.
Better they aim at me.
Because the second someone reaches for Brittany for real, this stops being politics.
And I don’t play politics when it turns personal.
Chapter 15
Brittany
Time in Hell doesn’t move straight. It stretches, loops, and doubles back on itself like it’s trying to trip you.
Months pass. Long enough for the bruised feeling in my chest to dull but not disappear. Long enough for Oaks to become a shadow I can’t quite shake, even when I tell myself I’m done looking.
He’s everywhere without ever being obvious about it.
At the diner, he takes the corner booth near the window three mornings in a row, black coffee, no sugar, not even pretending to read the menu. He tips heavy and doesn’t flirt and doesn’t look at me more than necessary. The first time, I tell myself it’s coincidence. The second time, I spill cream on the counter because my hands won’t stay steady. The third time, I decide he’s doing it on purpose.
At the pawn shop, he wanders in claiming he’s looking for a torque wrench, then leaves without buying anything. He stands too close to the glass case, talking to Lottie about something mechanical while I’m right there, pretending I can’t hear the way his voice gets lower when he wants somebody else to listen.
At Hollar Dollar, he rams his cart into mine in the cereal aisle hard enough to jolt me forward.
“Damn,” he says lightly. “Reckon we oughta exchange insurance.”
I glare at him over the dented cart. “You stalking me now?”
His mouth tilts like he’s amused, but there’s something tight under it, something that don’t match the joke. “If I was stalking you, you wouldn’t see me.”
“That ain’t comforting.”
He leans one forearm against the cart handle and lowers his voice like we’re sharing gossip instead of warnings. “Sophie’s gone missing.”
The words drop heavy between us, heavier than cereal and coupons and fluorescent lights.
I blink. “That ain’t funny.”
“I ain’t joking.”
I cross my arms. “That got anything to do with you following me into the frozen foods aisle?”
“It’s got everything to do with why you shouldn’t be alone.”
I roll my eyes because that’s easier than admitting the back of my neck just prickled. “I’m not alone. I got friends. I got…”
“Elijah,” he finishes.
The way he says Elijah’s name makes my pulse jump, like he put a finger on something tender on purpose.
“Yes,” I say stubbornly. “Elijah.”
He studies me like he’s trying to measure something he can’t quite reach. “You trust him?”
I hesitate a fraction too long.
“That’s what I thought,” he mutters, like he didn’t want to be right.
