Page 9 of Burn it Down
A table tucked just out of the glow of our fake celebration holds a group of Castlebrook’s worst-behaved…the bull riders from Grey’s Ranch. They don’t belong here. Especially not Caiden Grey, slouched in his chair, long legs sprawled, sipping from a dark bottle instead of a glass.
My heartbeat stutters because something is happening. I can see the looks on everyone’s faces at my table.
Why are they here?
They never come to this part of town, not unless they’re making a statement.
I lift my eyes and meet Caiden’s, and he doesn’t look away. A shiver races down my spine because I can tell Caiden knows something.
I remember what Riven told me once about Caiden Grey: he lives by a code. Never touches what isn’t his. Never lays hands on a girl who belongs to someone else. That was the first time Riven had called me his. He’s made the comment, “Don’t be afraid of him. He knows you belong to me.” I’ll never forget the feeling that soared through me in that moment. I belonged to RivenKozlov, even if he didn’t mean it in the way I wanted him to, I was still his.
My chest pulls tight. I don’t want to get my hopes up because Caiden’s presence here tonight could be a coincidence.
But it isn’t.
I know it in my bones.
Matthew starts talking again. Loud. Obnoxious. Something about our honeymoon plans. The wordMaldivesfloats across the table like a curse.
Something inside me snaps.
I once thought Riven would burn the world for me, so maybe it’s time I start the fire.
I can’t run. They’d find me. Drag me back. But I can end this. I can kill Matthew. I know I’ve got it in me.
I know herbs. I know poisons. I know where the hemlock grows at the edge of the woods behind the old mill.
It wouldn’t take much. Just a pinch. Just enough for someone his size.
And then I’d disappear. I’d rather live on the run, in the woods, for fucksake, then deal with whatever torture the slimeball next to me has in store.
A hand slides under the table and grabs my knee.
Fucking gross.
He starts to move it up my thigh, a smug smile on his putrid face.
I jerk away and grab my fork off the table. “I hope you’re ambidextrous, because if you don’t get your hand off of me, you’ll never use this hand again,” I snap.
He laughs, pulling his hand away from my leg and waving my mother off when she squeals, ready to reprimand me for threatening to stab precious little Matthew with silverware.
“Wiry little thing,” Matthew coos like I’m a horse to be broken. A poorly behaved dog to be trained.
My mother hisses, “Lakynn, behave. He’s just being sweet.”
I want to scream. I want to stand up and flip the table and tell them all to go to hell.
Instead, I scoot my chair away from him. It’s not far, but my point has been made.
He reaches again, but this time around my waist, and tries to pull me closer.
That’s when the glass clinks loudly and obnoxiously.
Everything stills.
Silverware freezes mid-air. Conversations halt.
Caiden Grey stands and walks toward us like a reaper in denim and a pearl snap.
