I squeezed her arms. “Remember when Constance was brave for you?”
She stared, tears streaming down her cheeks.
“When she made everything better? When she made all the bad things disappear?”
She nodded.
“Be brave for her.”
She cried a little longer before she gave a nod.
I gave her a quick kiss on the forehead then sprinted out the door.
At that exact moment, Bleu’s truck drove right up the sidewalk at fifty miles an hour. He slammed on the brakes before he crashed into the building. He hopped out and sprinted around the truck.
I ran around the other side and took the wheel. “Get Claire.”
No questions asked, Bleu disappeared into the house.
I took off up the road, scanning left and right for a woman running for her life.
I called in my men to make a perimeter ten miles around my apartment. If we didn’t find her on the streets, that meant Forneus had taken her when she couldn’t put up a fight. But that would break the truce, and he’d be stupid to do that.
I kept driving, kept turning down small streets, looking for her in the dark.
Bartholomew called. “Why the fuck are you pulling my men—”
“Because Forneus drugged Constance, and now she’s missing. And it’s our men—asshole.” I hung up and made a sharp turn down a street I’d already driven down twice. “Come on, baby. Where are you.”
I got another call. “We think we found her. The alley behind La Chanteria.”
“Got it.” I hit the brakes and flipped around, almost hitting a couple cars in the process. They honked incessantly as I sped away. Police lights flashed in the streets as people called in my reckless driving, but whenever they got close enough to recognize my face, they veered off.
I parked right on the sidewalk and sprinted into the alleyway. “Constance!”
She was on the ground against the wall, arms to her chest, caked in mud, a river of blood running down her head. She mumbled to herself, her eyes dazed like she could fall asleep, but she was too high for her brain to turn off.
I kneeled in front of her. “Constance.”
Her head turned so her eyes could take me in, and her entire face drained of blood. Snow-white, she looked like nothing but skin and bone. She started to tremble before she tried to crawl away, pushing herself against a wall that wouldn’t move.
“Constance, it’s Benton.”
“No…no…it’s not real.” She pulled her body away, dragging it across the dirty concrete where the homeless pissed and the rats feasted. “It’s real…this is the real…”
I grabbed her by the arm and forced her up upright. “Come on—”
“Ahhhhh!” Her arms flailed as she tried to fight me off, tears streaking down her face, murder in her eyes. “Don’t fucking touch me…don’t fucking…” She landed on the ground again, but this time, she didn’t get back up.
I kneeled over her, and as I drew close, she panted harder, trembled uncontrollably.
This time, I didn’t touch her, just came into her line of sight. “Constance—”
“I’m not your angel…I’m not…please don’t.” She kept her arms in front of her, palms up, her only defense.
I’d kill that motherfucker. I swore it then and there. “Baby.”
She immediately inhaled a deep breath.
I finally got through to her. “I’m here now.”
“Benton…?” She closed her eyes, and more tears streamed down her face, trickled to the pavement below her.
“Yes.”
She breathed harder and harder, keeping her eyes tightly closed.
“I’m real.”
She nodded, her teeth clenched tightly together.
“I’m going to take care of you, okay?”
She nodded again.
I reached for her hand.
She grabbed on to me, squeezing my hand like it was a lifeline.
I got her to her feet then carried her back to the truck at the sidewalk.
Her arms locked around my neck, and she buried her face in the crook, still breathing hard as she held on to me for dear life. “This is real…”
“Yes.”
The only reason the acid didn’t kill her was because her body had developed a tolerance to it. That dose to anyone else would have been fatal. I took her to our medical facility, where the doctor pumped her stomach and then gave her some meds to keep her asleep so she could sleep through the rest of the high.
I sat in the armchair at her bedside when I heard heavy footfalls outside the door. The front door had opened and shut minutes ago, and I suspected I already knew the identity of the arrival.
He stepped into the doorway, dressed in all black, giving Constance a look of sheer boredom. It lingered for a long time before it shifted to me—still bored.
Listening to a heated conversation between Bartholomew and me wasn’t a pleasant way to wake up, so I left her bedside and joined him in the sitting room on the other side of the house. It was still sometime in the middle of the night, the lampposts casting a glow through the drawn curtains.