Her eyes flicker to mine, and her expression softens into sorrow. “Have you ever had something so horrendous happen to you that you’re unable to move on from it?”
I debate telling her the truth, but seeing the look on her face, I simply say, “Yes.”
“Then you understand that I can’t return to my normal life, and trust you to take care of it for me.”
I stay quiet, unsure how to respond. I want to tell her more of what I have planned to do with the guys who hurt her, but the less she knows the better.
When I don’t answer, she faces me, a new determination morphing her features. “They robbed me of who I was. I want myself back, River.”
My eyebrows quickly furrow with confusion. “What are you implying?”
“I need your help.”
My help?
“With what?”
Lux takes a deep breath before replying. “I want you to let me take them down with you.”
“Absolutely not.”
She’d get herself killed. Lux is only a regular person, she’s not a killer. The anger inside drives her to believe she can do these things, but is grossly mistaken on what type of personality it takes to be able to take a life—or what it does to a person once they do it.
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not safe.”
“You’re already hunting them.” Her throat bobs with a hard swallow. “And I deserve to avenge what’s happened to me. All I’m asking is to be included.”
I groan, running a gloved hand over the top of my cotton balaclava. I wonder if I should have just left her for the police to find. Because now, my curiosity in this woman got the best of me, and I unintentionally created another complication in my life.
“You don’t really want any part of this. This isn’t who you are.”
The moonlight shines through the windows reflecting on the delicate features of her worried face. “You don’t know me.”
I breathe out, ignoring her question. “It’s rage fueling you.”
“What if it’s not only rage? What if thisiswho I am?”
“Adrenaline,” I say evenly, offering another explanation.
“Does that make me fucked up to want to pursue these men instead of hiding from them?”
The urge to comfort her is strong. Reluctantly, I give in and rest a gentle palm on her back, deeply understanding the torment that vibrates through her. “No.”
“It’s taking over my every thought,” she whispers, leaning into my touch.
“Everyone copes with trauma in their own way. It doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with you. It means you’re not like other people.”
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No,” I admit softly. A rush of protectiveness floods my system, and the warmth of her skin—even through fabric—is enough to cause a tingling in my palm. My instincts are speaking again and I need to listen. I need to protect her anyway I can.
“What makes you certain?” She lifts her head from her hands to meet my eyes. They’re pleading, searching for answers I’m not sure I can give.She doesn’t wait for me to respond, but from the narrow slits in her eyes, I know she senses my apprehension. “I don’t want to cry or be sad. And I can’t move on. I need to be a part of this,” she begs, her voice cracking. “Please, River.”
The way my name falls from her pink lips again is enough to make me forget about everything, when suddenly a Mercedes drives by us and pulls into Rich’s driveway. From across the wide street a few houses down, we watch as who I recognize is Rich steps out, carrying a black briefcase. As he approaches the front, a woman in a long dress wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him.
“That’s him?” I state it in more of a question to see if she recognizes him.
