Page 69 of No Control
Right. I have to give her space.
But not so much she can run away from me. She’s the only thing that’s helped me feel something after years of nothing but numbness. I don’t want to go back.
I set the towel on the edge of the tub and then leave her there, letting her soak in the warmth of the bathwater and the truth bomb I just dropped on her. I close the door behind me, anger and frustration building in my chest.
I want to hurt someone for this.
A groan breaks my thoughts, and I rip the bedroom door open to see Jude propping himself up, his hand going to the back of his head.
“What the hell?” Jude wipes the blood smeared across his fingers onto his shirt.
The sight of him royally pisses me off, and in seconds, I’m standing over him, dragging him to his feet.
“What’re you doing?” he shouts at me as I pin him against the wall, crimson smearing across the white surface.
“You almost got her killed,” I exasperate, pulling him toward me and then slamming him back against the wall.
“Shit…Henry, I tried to chase the guy, and he just—I’m so fucking sorry.” Jude’s head drops, and I hate that he’s so sincere. He looks back up at me. “Is she okay?”
I release him, clenching my fists at my sides. “No, she’s not okay. She’s messed up about shooting some guy in the throat when he attacked her—and now she knows what I really do for a living, too.”
Jude lets out a ragged sigh, running his palms over his face. “This is bad.”
“I have to get her out of here. We might have taken care of one threat, but you know once the news gets around he’s dead, it’ll just go to the next on the list—if it hasn’t already. I haven't checked for wires yet.”
“You just focus on getting her and yourself out of here. I’ll take care of the mess.”
“And then you’re going to Vinita.” It’s a nickname for Luca’s place, one that very, very few know. It’s a safe place. For now.
“No other info gathered?”
I shake my head. “I’ll go start packing.”
“I know where you’re headed, right?”
“Yeah, you know.”
And she’s gonna be pissed when we show up.
twenty-eight
Lydia
He kills people. He’s a murderer.
But so am I.
The towel feels like sandpaper on my skin as I wrap it around my body. It’s not comforting, nor is it a distraction from the utter confusion I feel. I want to be angry at Henry for lying to me about his job—but what for? If I murdered people for a living, I probably wouldn’t broadcast that either.
The tile is cold and slick against my wet feet as I slip toward the bathroom door, pulling it open and peering out. My eyes land on Henry, who’s throwing clothes into a large duffel bag. My heart trips over itself—the first sign that it’s still beating. But…is he…running? Is it because I know the truth?
Ugh.
Even though I want to be angry and should be scared, I still, in this moment, feel nothing. Other than the fact that I need him now, more than ever. I drink in the sight of him, the blood smeared across his white T-shirt, and the way his biceps appear as taught as his jaw. The stress radiating from his movements is palpable. And for some reason, I have an urge to make him feel better. Maybe it’ll make me feel better, too.
“Hey,” I croak as I step out into the bedroom. “Where are you going?”
He doesn’t look up as he drops a hoodie into the bag. “Away.” The cool air in the room leaves my body chilled, and shivering, I take a step closer to him.
