Heartless (Starcrossed Lovers Trilogy 1)

“Where the fuck is she?”

He knew who I was talking about. He swallowed hard but he shook his head. “Stay away from her.”

Turns out pussy boy had bigger balls than I thought.

“I asked you once, where the fuck is she?” I hissed. “You know what’s coming to you if you don’t open your fucking mouth.”

He did know. I could see it in his eyes. Still, that didn’t matter. He was a brave little pussy boy after all.

It was the Blue prick who came for me, reaching out to wrestle me with weedy arms.

“Stop!” pussy boy yelled to him before he could grab me. “That’s Lucian Morelli; don’t go near him!”

Blue prick knew who I was well enough to stop in his tracks and back away.

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Holy fucking fuck . . .”

“I’m not asking you again,” I told pussy boy. “Where is Elaine Constantine?”

It was the Blue prick who answered. He answered in no time at all.

“That little blondie is Elaine Constantine? Whoa, shit. She’s downstairs with Stephen Cannon,” he said, and I turned to him, seething.

“If she was downstairs, I’d have found her already, idiot. Where the fuck has she gone?”

“Don’t tell him!” pussy boy yelled, but the Blue prick was staring at him with saucer eyes.

“That’s Lucian Morelli, of course I’m fucking telling him!” The guy shot his stare back to me, and he was shitting himself. He tossed me some keys from his jeans pocket. “She’s on fifth Avenue, top floor of block twelve.”

“No!” pussy boy cried, but I elbowed him straight in the face, knocking him out cold.

Blue prick went to scream, but he was next in line. Another elbow right to the jaw saw him in a heap on the floor, unconscious.

They were lucky I didn’t break their necks before I left, but I didn’t have the time.

The bass was still booming and people were still drinking when I charged back down into the kitchen. I tore my way through the drawers until I found what I needed. One hell of a knife slipped straight into my jacket, and then I pushed and shoved my way out of that hovel onto the sidewalk.

I didn’t have time to order a cab.

I didn’t have time to risk the cops showing up – even my Lucian Morelli get-out-of-shit-free card would take some time under this much commotion. Time I didn’t have.

I checked out my cell and looked up Fifth Avenue. A few blocks over. I could make it at a sprint, but it would take minutes at best. I just hoped Elaine Constantine’s pussy had minutes left to spare with a prick like that trying to get his hands on it. Even at a push it would be unlikely. Not if she was spreading her legs for him. And why wouldn’t she be? Why wouldn’t she be spreading her legs for the prick?

My stomach did a monster of a twist at the thought, and again I didn’t get it. I didn’t fucking get it. Why the fuck would I give a shit about Elaine Constantine spreading her legs for anyone?

Again, the truth was there waiting. As always, the truth was there waiting.

I was desperate for the girl. Truly fucking desperate for her.

She sure as fuck didn’t belong to that loser, and if he’d taken her . . . if he’d taken what was mine . . .

The knife in my jacket was already crying out for his blood. Just a shame it wasn’t crying out for hers, too. Not anymore. Not until I’d taken every scrap of her soul and made it mine.

I set off at full speed, her clutch still clasped tight with me. I turned the corner at the bottom of the street, crashing into a couple walking up the other way, clearly ready to hit the party.

“Have you seen a girl with blonde hair? Beautiful thing, hanging off some brute in rock gear?”

They shook their heads, and the guy answered. “Nah, sorry, man. Ain’t seen anyone much this way.”

I was off without so much as a blink, scanning the street signs as I made my way closer. Fifth Avenue. Fifth fucking Avenue. I nearly got myself killed when a car came speeding the other way on Fourth Avenue, but it managed to brake just in time with a blare of the horn.

“Fucking asshole!” the driver yelled through the window, and I would’ve usually challenged him, just for his insult, but I didn’t. I kept on sprinting.

My cell was directing me fast and clear, and my legs were carrying me with everything they had. My breaths were ragged, but not just from the sprint, it was from the rage. The challenge. And I hated to admit it. I hated to admit it with every piece of self that I had. But it was fear.

I was scared to find Elaine Constantine taking another man’s cock.