Hawk (A Stepbrother Romance #3)(36)

His arms tighten around me.

“I’m going to kill him.”

“What?”

“I’ll rip out his throat with my bare hands.”

“You can’t.” I’m holding him back, now. “They’ll take you away again. I can’t go through that again. You can’t leave me. Ever.”

I pull away from him. He lets go, only reluctantly, and I sit back against the tree. He reaches over and sets his palm against my cheek, brushes the tear away with his thumb. The calloused, tough skin of his hand is rough against my cheek. I lean into his touch, rub my cheek against his hand.

“Before you left,” I say, very calmly. “I was going to, uh, make a move. Tell you how I felt.”

“How did you feel?”

I can’t say it. Three little words and I can’t say it. It catches in my throat and makes tears leak from my eyes. I want to, but something won’t let me.

“I feel the same way now I did then,” he says.

The world turns blurry as my eyes water. I pull up my shirt and use it to scrub at my tears, but not too hard; I don’t want to look like I’ve been crying when I get home.

“I can’t stay away too long,” I sigh. “My runs don’t usually last this long. I need to get back.”

“I know. We can’t be seen together. You go on ahead.”

“Are you going to follow me?”

“Yes. Just to keep an eye on you.”

I manage to stand up, slowly.

When I start to run I don’t look back.

Not because I don’t want to, because I don’t have to.

God I hate myself.

How many days, months, years praying for Hawk to come back? For him to show up and save me?

I meant what I said. I want it to be like it was. I ache for it with every fiber of my being, long for it down to the marrow of my bones. I would give anything, anything, to go back to that water park, back to that bus, just to feel that way again. I want the world I was supposed to have, not this hell.

I run.

It takes maybe fifteen minutes to get back to the house. By then I’ve run myself out, I’m totally winded, breathing hard in ragged heaves as I walk back up the porch steps, slip in through the back door and start upstairs.

As I pass through the kitchen, the office door opens and I scurry upstairs, a fright passing through me like an electric shock.

I hear Tom’s voice.

“Thank you again, Eli. We’ll be starting soon.”

No answer to that, whoever Eli is, I can’t hear his voice. I hear footsteps, though, and see a man in what looks like an Amish getup walk through the foyer, Tom at his back. By the time they open the door for Tom’s guest to leave, I’m already in my room, the door locked. I wait a good ten minutes before I grab my robe and head into the bathroom for a quick shower.

When I step out, Tom is coming up the stairs.

I feel sick. His gaze is like a rotten banana peel on my skin. Not that I’m showing much, but just the way his eyes rake over my calves and my chest before I squeeze the collar around my throat makes me want to scream.

“There you are. Enjoy your morning run?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. I’m going to need you today. We’ll be working weekends and pulling a few all-nighters as the campaign heats up.”

I nod. “I’ll get dressed.”

As I grasp my doorknob he says, “Has Howard spoken to you at all?”

It feels like I just swallowed an ice cube and it’s stuck in my throat.

“No, sir. Not at all.”

He eyes me for a moment, then smiles, nods, and walks down the stairs.

“You’re always such a reliable young woman, Alexis. I hope you enjoy working with me as I much as I enjoy working with you.”

There’s a leering edge to his voice that’s like a finger tracing down my back, and I rush into my room before he gets low enough down the stairs to look up my robe. I lock the door and sit on the bed and try to focus, but the world goes blurry again.

What the f*ck am I doing? I should be getting May to pack her things and we should go with Hawk right now, I don’t care how old she is. He came back to save me and now I won’t let him.

What’s wrong with me?

I have to dress professionally. That means as much as it disgusts me, I have to put on a pencil skirt. Tom prefers I wear those. I buy the longest ones I can, so they go past my knees, but I still feel uncomfortable wearing something so tight around my ass. I usually wear a blazer to cover up as much as I can, over a loose blouse. I button this one to my neck and pull my hair into a ponytail, slip on ballet flats (he keeps buying me shoes but I am not sitting around in his office wearing red f*ck-me pumps.) Then I head downstairs.

The office door is open, and he’s waiting inside, but not at his desk. He’s slipping something into his attaché case, which he then hands off to me. I take it and step back by the door.

“We’re going to meet with a campaign supporter,” he says, smirking at me. “You look lovely today, Alexis.”

“Thank you,” I manage to say without sounding like I want to puke.

My stepfather, man of the people, drives an old Ford pickup when it suits him. Today it suits him to take the Mercedes. Like a perfect gentlemen, he opens the door for me, and rakes my legs with his eyes. Before he gets in, I tug the hem down over my knees, for all the good that will do.