Page 11 of Psycho

I hated seeing her spooked. I hated that she was involved in any of this. She could get hurt. And if The Filthy Rebels found out that she was the one feeding intel to us, they would hunt her down to shut her up.

Bobbie took a step back, retreating toward the trees.

I couldn’t let her slip through my fingers—not again. Without thinking, I barged through the underbrush. Bruiser swore, but I dodged out of reach when he tried to grab me.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed.

Ignoring him, I stepped out of the forest. Pretty Boy growled at the sight of me. Bobbie’s eyes widened and she went white as a sheet.

“Hi, Bobbie,” I said.

She swayed forward on her toes, muscles braced to bolt. Her gaze flicked to Pretty Boy.

“I thought I was crystal clear. You were supposed to come alone.”

“That was the plan,” Pretty Boy said through his teeth. He moved toward me with a threatening glare. I screwed up—big time—and he was going to rip me a new one.

But I skirted around him, keeping my gaze locked on Bobbie. I didn’t want to risk looking away, even for a moment. She might vanish, like a ghost, and I’d never see her again.

“How long have you been in town?” I asked.

Bobbie shifted from foot to foot restlessly, plucking at the frayed cuff of her denim jacket. It was huge on her—probably a men’s size—with a rainbow of haphazard patches in the worn-out elbows.

“A while,” she hedged.

That wasn’t a definitive answer, and her caginess suggested she wanted to escape this conversation as quickly as possible.

“Bobbie,” I said softly. “It’s me. Arrow.”

She chewed her thumbnail.

“I know,” she whispered.

This was…confusing. And not the way she usually greeted me. She used to run into my arms, popping up on her toes to kiss my cheek while she chirped, there you are, my future husband, I’ve been looking everywhere for you.

But this was lukewarm at best.

Maybe Bobbie had moved on. Maybe she was in love with someone else.

I held out my hand as an invitation. Bobbie glanced at my upturned palm and gingerly traced the scar there. Her touch felt like butterfly wings.

Then her fingers strayed higher, to my wrist, grazing the cuff of tattoo ink. A lock of red hair brushed her cheek, and I resisted the urge to tuck it behind her ear. Or to thread my fingers into her hair, pulling her close.

Our breath frosted in the air, but the desire that vibrated between us was as hot as a fiery coal.

“What the hell are you doing here, Bobbie?” I said softly, my voice edged with concern.

The corner of her mouth twitched with a wry smile that didn’t meet her eyes.

“Hiding,” she said.

The pang of that one word made it hard to breathe.

“Hiding? From what?”

“Everything,” she replied. “Look, it’s a long story, and I’m getting cold—”

“Then come home with me,” I cut in. “Spend the night. We can talk. We can catch up. We can…”