Beast's Demands (Crude Hill High 3)

“Why did this have to happen, huh? It’s not that I don’t want you, I do. I’m not sure I know how to take care of myself,” I said. I kept rubbing my stomach. Would I have a boy or girl? “I always imagined your daddy being with us. You know. I had my entire life mapped out. I’d go to college, get a great education, a job. I always wanted to be a television cook. Not a chef. I like creating my own meals and all that stuff. I’d meet a really great guy. We’d fall in love, get married, and then you’d be born. Look at me, talking to myself.”

Tears filled my eyes, and I groaned at the unfairness of the tears.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t cry.”

Getting to my feet, I grabbed the boxes and the used tests, then threw them in my trash. I washed my hands, splashed my face with water, and gave a deep breath.

“I’m fine.”

I wasn’t fine.

Life in England wasn’t doing what I wanted it to do.

The truth was I missed Earl no matter where I was, and with each day that passed, the more I hated myself for my feelings for him. It wasn’t right. I shouldn’t love a man who sold women.

I’d even made myself a pros and cons chart. First with the cons. He was a human trafficker, he killed people, he wasn’t a nice man, bossy, took too long in the bathroom, and he enjoyed eating frozen garden peas. Again, peas weren’t something I enjoyed, especially not frozen garden ones. Yuck. For the pros, and I hated this. An excellent kisser, great in bed, kind, sweet, considerate, loving, protective, and I felt safe with him. The list went on and on, and I hated that I could think of anything nice to say about this man.

I released a growl and went to my kitchen, pouring myself a glass of water.

“I’m not doing it anymore.” Raising my hands in the air as if to ward off whatever being was haunting me, I grabbed my keys and let myself out of my apartment.

I left the building, not thinking where I was going until I found a pub. It wasn’t too busy when I took a seat at the bar. While there, I ordered a beer. The guy behind the counter asked me what kind and listed off a whole load of ales and lagers and bitters, to which I told him I didn’t care, to just pick one.

So many options.

With a pint of beer in front of me, I stared at the glass.

I wasn’t a drinker and certainly not a beer drinker.

I was pregnant. Beer was bad for the baby. I wasn’t a bad person, and I couldn’t harm this baby.

With my hands flat on the counter, I rested my chin on my hands and stared at the drink. I wasn’t going to drink it. I wasn’t going to touch any alcohol, and first thing in the morning, I’d get an appointment and confirm I was indeed pregnant.

Time ticked slowly by.

I stared at the glass.

People came and went.

Tiredness consumed me. I’d already paid for my beer. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I got to my feet, and left the pub, going back to my apartment. I stepped over the threshold, feeling all the fight leave my body. I turned and felt something tear beneath my feet.

Flicking on the light, I caught sight of a large brown envelope. It had been slid beneath my door.

I quickly closed and locked the door before bending down to pick up the envelope. I didn’t recognize it, and there was no stamp or sign on it to show it had been delivered by a postman or courier.

After tearing into the envelope, I reached in and found a single newspaper clipping.

At first, I didn’t focus on it. I looked back into the envelope and was surprised at the waste, seeing as there was only a single piece of paper, and it wasn’t even the size of the envelope, it was tiny.

Whoever had posted this through my letterbox, they didn’t want me to miss it.

On the back, I couldn’t make out the story as half of it had been chopped off. I turned it over and saw the headline: Cargo of missing girls found. Families are in the process of being contacted.

With the paper in my hand, I walked back to my seat and sat down.

I read the short piece. The story was taken a few days ago. A cargo of kidnapped girls had been found. The girls had been badly beaten and suspected of being sold to the slave trade.

Human trafficking.

Who would send me this?

“You weren’t home.”

I released a scream and fell off the edge of the sofa where I’d crawled over.

That voice.

I knew it. Gripping the edge of the sofa, I peered over the top to find Earl sitting in the corner of my sitting room. His boots only appeared in the light of the lamp I’d switched on.