Page 41 of Heavy
He leans down to me, and with the coldest tone, he whispers, “You deserve to die for what you are doing.”
A scream rips from my throat as I jolt upright in bed, hands clutching at my neck while my feet kick, sending all the blankets tumbling to the floor. My skin prickles, and I scoot back until I hit the cold, wooden headboard.
I’m panting, struggling to catch my breath, but at least I can breathe. My chest rises and falls sharply in front of me, and I pull my knees up, curling into a ball.
It takes a moment to steady myself, but finally my breathing falls to a regular rhythm. It was just a nightmare—a creation of my own mind—but holy fuck, it felt real. My body aches as though I’ve sprinted a mile. I’m sore, exhausted, and my temples throb with a pounding headache.
When I’m finally able to peel myself away from the ball I’ve curled into, I reach for my phone and see three new texts and a missed phone call. All of them are from Gene:
MISSED CALL: GENE-VEE
Gene-Vee:
I just got home. You passed out quick, girlie
We also are going to talk about… Ronan? I’m not sure if I spelled that right. Going to be honest with you, he is so fucking hot but if he really is your uncle, let’s diagnose that before jumping on that train
No judgement though, I’m here to support you. Step-uncle fucking or not.
I drop my phone and glance out the window, relieved to be in my own bed. The sun is starting to rise, casting a soft glow, but my head is pounding with a brutal hangover. I shift uncomfortably, because despite the fact that Ronan was trying to kill me in that nightmare, there is dampness between my thighs.
Would he really talk to me that way if we were intimate? I don’t actually want him to choke me to death, but everything else about it has me chewing on my bottom lip.
I know I can’t go there. There’s too much at stake, and no matter how much I want to drop to my knees and beg him to suffocate me with his cock, I won’t.
It's like I'm finally connecting the filthy thoughts I've had about my hot-as-hell step-uncle with what happened last night, and suddenly a wave of panic hits me.
“Oh shit!” I shout, grabbing a nightgown to cover my bare body before rushing out of the room.
His door is cracked open, and I ease it further, moving as quietly as I can. The first light of dawn spills into the room, but his bed is empty. I don’t linger, heading straight to the bathroom next—just as empty.
Heart pounding, I dart out and rush into the living room. Nothing. Then I burst into the garage, slamming my palm against the light switch. It’s pitch black and he’s nowhere to be found, along with his bike. I’ve never known him to park it anywhere but in here.
Oh…Oh no…
Something catches in my throat, making it impossible to swallow. Every bone in my body shakes as my mind races over what could have happened. He got into a fight. He’s a convicted felon... What if the cops showed up? What if he was hurt and ended up in the hospital? Or worse—what if he didn’t even make it there and he’s lying in a morgue somewhere?
My hungover, dramatic brain latches onto that last thought, imagining him zipped into a black bag, tucked into a cold metal drawer. I slap my hands over my mouth, a muffled sob escaping as the image burns into my mind.
You did it anyway. You did hurt him…
Cry… just cry…
Brain… please…
I'm shaking as I turn back into the house and hurry to the guest room. Snatching up my phone, I start a frantic search.
‘Bar fight, Maple Falls’—nothing.
‘Maple Falls bar brawl’—nothing.
‘Maple Falls + Ronan’—still nothing.
Immediately, I pull up the local hospital’s number and call their reception line at the ER.
“Good morning, thank you—”
I don’t let the girl finish. “Hi, I’m calling to see if someone was admitted last night. Ronan Byrne.”
