left, the booth seat shifting as I turn my head to meet Ria’s golden gaze while she settles in beside me, “you okay?”
I force myself not to look back again at Jeremiah.
I know what he’s doing.
He’s treated me like gold since I’ve been back with him, in his hideaway on the outskirts of Alexandria. Similar to gold mixed with psycho like he was with Roman, but that’s Jeremiah.
He’s been nice, for him. Nicer than I’ve ever known him to be.
Nicer even than my husband. Then again, my husband is an asshole.
I don’t know if Lucifer knows I’m here, but if so, as far as I know, he hasn’t come by. Hasn’t tried to call or contact me.
I hope he’s getting help.
Thinking of it, I run my hand absentmindedly over the scar above my brow. So small, Jeremiah didn’t notice it until the third night I was here, and he was closer to me than he should’ve been.
He’d asked how I’d gotten it.
I’d lied.
Just like I do to Ria, now. “Yeah,” I tell her, speaking up over the music, forcing a smile I don’t feel as I glance around the club. “Are you enjoying yourself?”
The place isn’t packed, but the DJ has an audience on the dance floor, and about half of the private booths are filled, too, for Nicolas’s birthday. I haven’t seen him since Jeremiah snapped his fingers and had his bouncer deal with Roman, still sobbing on the floor.
Ria runs her hand through her curly brown hair, tucking a lock behind her ear. She’s dressed in a white, cut-off tee that shows off the flat planes of her stomach, her brown skin contrasting beautifully with the white shirt. She’s got on distressed jeans, burgundy booties. She looks good, and I feel like a blimp next to her.
I haven’t been sleeping well either and I know I look tired.
With the person I know I saw in the woods—but no one else seems to fucking believe existed—I won’t sleep well tonight either, which is why I don’t mind being out so late. It’s either stay here or toss and turn in bed like I did before I ran.
I don’t know if it’s the pregnancy that’s kept me up, or the fear.
Sometimes I dream about Lucifer.
Sometimes I don’t.
I’m not sure which is worse.
I run a hand through my greasy, brown hair, down to my shoulders now. I had my bangs cut, blunt across my forehead, just above my eyes. I haven’t gained much weight according to the scale, but according to my bra size—I had to order a few online since I got here—I’ve gained quite a bit.
It’s why I’m in a tank a few sizes too big over black leggings. Actually, no, that’s part of my regular attire.
Still. The leggings are tight, and the shirt is straining against my new boobs.
Lucifer had been in love with that.
But he’d been in love with a lot of things that weren’t really me.
I step out of the bathroom, steam wafting from the shower at my back. Pammie’s blood went down that drain, and with it, all the ways Maverick and I hurt her. Killed her.
I wonder if I should feel some type of remorse.
I don’t.
I can only hope that’s how my husband feels when he thinks of what he did to his father.
I can’t hear the music up here, and as I towel dry my hair, standing in front of the floor length mirror, checking for any flecks of blood, I’m glad. I’m exhausted, and I’d rather believe it’s because I’m pregnant and not because I don’t sleep at night, thanks to the nightmares that have come back. But I know better.
Then there’s the fighting.
We’re always fighting.
I drop the towel on our bed behind me, wonder where my husband is. Last I saw him, Ezra was dragging him away from the kitchen, from another shot of vodka, and I let him go, because me and Maverick had to take care of his tormenter.
Now, though, I wish I knew where he was.
My eyes are heavy with sleep as I pull on one of his black T-shirts and a pair of shorts from the dresser. I rake my fingers through my wet hair and glance toward the door of our suite here.
Still closed, and I don’t hear anyone coming.
Sighing, I grab the fluffy white towel from the bed, hang it up in the bathroom, then brush my teeth, checking for any lingering blood on my face or neck. The black bandana is in the hamper