I flag down a cab, and when it screeches to the corner, I climb inside. Adam follows. “Airport,” I order.
The driver guns the engine. I open my door and tumble out onto the road, leaving Adam prisoner to speed. I’m on my feet and down a side street, fast-tracking into a subway tunnel before he can recover. Once I’m on a train, it’s done. Adam is out of the picture. I just saved him from putting himself on Tag’s radar. The way I tried to save Candace from me. And yet, here I am, on my way to San Antonio, and if Tag even thinks about involving her in this, I won’t just kill that little prick. I’ll make him suffer.
SAVAGE AND CANDACE
THE PAST, THE BEGINNING
CHAPTER TWO
Candace
Ten years ago—San Antonio, Texas
The rain cloaks the roadway, an unyielding curtain blinding my vision. This was not what I had in mind when I left my empty little cottage in Alamo Heights to head to my favorite late-night study spot. I wanted to snap out of my blurry-eyed haze and just finish the design work I’m doing for my internship, not die when my car careens into the ditch. I’m blessed to have acclaimed architect Wesley Miller mentor me, and I’m determined to prove it has nothing to do with his brother working underneath my father’s military command. I’m going to earn this. I’m going to make my parents, and myself, proud of my work.
I just—I can’t be home right now without thinking about my mom. Not when my home was inherited from my grandmother two years ago, and now my mom is gone, too. And of course, my father deploys to Iraq next week. I just need noise around me, anything that keeps me focused on it and my studies.
Thankfully, my destination, a place called Halcyon, where coffee and spirits are available until two AM, is a mere one block down. I hope. I think. It’s hard to tell right now. Peering through the darkness, I cruise by the driveway and make a quick turn into the parking lot. Thunder erupts overhead, jolting me, but I remain focused on my goal: parking and just getting into the warm, dry building. Considering the sea of cars present, all of which are all but floating, I’m shocked to eye a few open spots near the door.
Luckily, I whip into the great spot and kill the engine. I glance at the clock and eye the ten o’clock hour. I have four hours to caffeinate and stuff my face with a piece of chocolate ganache cake. I deserve it for surviving this past month. I won’t sleep much if I stay until closing, but I wouldn’t sleep anyway. A man rushes from the front door of the coffee bar and hurries to the vehicle next to me, wasting no time speeding away. Considering the rain has now become a monsoon, that works for me. I grab my umbrella and shove the door open wide, giving myself room to open it, grab my briefcase, that doubles as a purse, and step out into the storm.
In a rush of shutting the door of my Ford Focus and locking up, I finally step inside the warehouse-style operation, with high ceilings and two levels. I set my umbrella by the door and maneuver through the clusters of wood and steel chairs, with random cushy chairs here and there as well. I place my order, scanning to find one spot, one last table by a window where I can keep an eye on the storm. Claiming the small table, I reach in my bag for my drafting pad and grimace. It’s not here. Please tell me it’s in the car. I grab my wallet and stuff it in my pocket, along with my keys, leaving my bag to hold the table.
Hurrying back outside, I’m relieved to find the rain has slowed to a light drizzle, though I don’t trust that it will last. I pull up my hood, rushing outside to watch an SUV park so close that I can’t even get into my car. The asshole opens his door and I’ve had my limit. I charge toward him and by the time he’s standing I’m on his side of his door with him.
I don’t even care that he’s taller than any man I’ve ever actually stood this close to and as broad as the doorway. I’m pissed. I’m hurt. I need an outlet and he just made himself that outlet. “What are you doing?” I demand.
He yanks down his hood, displaying a handsome, sculpted face, with dark hair mussed up in that “finger fucked by some gorgeous woman” kind of way.
“Staring at a pretty lady, it seems,” he says, his voice a low, whiskey-roughened rasp, and yet somehow as deep and big as the man.