Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions Chapter 60

I wake up, already irritated. I’ve barely slept. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Harley. Not in some fantasy, and not even in some memory. But everywhere she’s never been but *should* be. In my kitchen, while we make dinner. On my phone’s screen, her video calling me so she can sass me about something stupid. In my bed, after hours of claiming every inch of her body.

It's not rational, but then again, I stopped pretending to be rational about her somewhere between Sunday night and the moment I didn't walk inside the bookstore on Tuesday.

I pace, I brood, I snarl at anyone who comes within five feet of my office. Griffin calls it a personality. I call it survival. The morning bleeds by minute by agonizing minute, and still, I’ve received nothing useful from my security team. The latest report from them reads like a committee of particularly uninspired sloths wrote it—still no word on the threat, still tracing whispers, still ‘looking into it’.

Now, I sit behind my desk, half-listening to Griffin rattle off details about tomorrow night’s gala I will not be attending—because I’m a stubborn, possessive bastard who pushed her away to protect her, and now I’m watching her slip out of my grasp. The irony is acidic.

“Boss,” Griffin's voice slices through my thoughts. “You’re not listening. Again.”

“Because it doesn’t matter,” I snap at him. “None of it does if I don’t know who’s targeting me.”

He sighs like he’s had this conversation too many times. “Your paranoia is charming, sir. But maybe, *just maybe*, it’s not about you this time. Maybe someone just hates your decorating taste?”

I ignore him and his feeble attempts to lighten my somber mood and pull up the camera feed outside her bookstore to distract myself—the same damn street I’ve been watching for days now like a quintessential stalker.

She’s always there by 9 am, like clockwork. But today… She isn’t.

The shop’s still closed, and the lights are still off. There’s no sign of Harley or the older woman who works for her. My heart doesn’t beat often, but right now it thuds, once, sharp and hard.

“Where is she?” I mutter, zooming in. But there’s still nothing. No movement. No sign of life.

Griffin straightens, sensing the shift in my demeanor, as he too peers at the camera feed, asking, “Maybe she’s late?”

“She’s never this late. It’s almost 11 am.” I pull out my phone and call Holland again. “I want camera access to the 1300 block between Fir and Oak. Now.”

“You’re tapping into residential feeds now?” Griffin says as he arches an eyebrow. “Even for you, that’s a bit dramatic.”

“I’m not asking for a lecture,” I say as I hold the phone to my ear, waiting, barely breathing.

This time, it takes Holland ninety seconds before my second screen on the far wall flickers to life, and there she is from three angles.

She’s in front of her house, and Harley—*my* Harley—is standing outside with a stranger. With a man who’s crouched beside her car, and jacking it up.

*Her flat tire from Wednesday.*

As he works and she leans against the side of the car, he laughs, and she smiles. And the breath I suck in at the sight, is cold and jagged, my hands curling into fists that feel as heavy as granite.

Griffin props his ass on the corner of my desk, his back to me, looking at the same horror show I am as it unfolds, before saying, “You really need to stop doing this to yourself.”

I don’t answer him, because I’m focusing really hard not to break the screen in front of me by launching my crystal paperweight across the room at it.

He says something, but I don’t catch it. All I can see is her slipping further away. The last time I touched her, she was in my arms while I devoured her. Now she’s smiling at the second man in as many days—one who probably uses hair gel unironically and calls women ‘babe’ in texts.

She shouldn’t have to fix her own damn tire. Even if I’ve never done it in my entire life, I should’ve been the one. I would’ve tried. I would’ve Googled it. I would’ve ruined a $1,000 shirt for her while I got grease on my hands and swore creatively while she made fun of me. Because at least *then*, she’d be laughing at *me*, and not flirting with someone else.

When he’s done, he stands up and stands close to her, a little *too* close. She’s tilting her head back while smiling in a way I haven’t seen in days. A smile that’s light and open. The kind of smile that knocks the breath out of me because I remember what it felt like the first time she gave it to me.

Then it happens.

He hands her his clipboard and a pen, presumably so she can sign some documentation. But before she hands it back, she scribbles something in the corner, tears it off, and tucks it under the binder of the clipboard.

"Nope," I growl as I stand so suddenly my chair skids back with a screech, and my hands curl around the edge of the desk.

Griffin leans closer to the screen, asking, "Is that her phone number?" Then he turns around towards me, slowly, like he’s dealing with a wild animal. "You know this could be innocent, right? People do still talk to strangers on the street. Exchange numbers with each other. Have harmless, flirty banter that means absolutely nothing."

I lock eyes with him, my voice low and lethal, as I ask, "Did *that* look harmless to you?"

He shrugs, but there’s an edge of caution behind his nonchalance now. "It looked like a woman being reminded she’s desirable, and taking back her power. Maybe it wouldn't hit so hard if you hadn’t ghosted her."

I want to break something—preferably his face.

Once the guy leaves, Harley disappears inside, her front door swinging shut behind her, and I pause the feed, then just stare at the frame.

Griffin slips from his perch and sits down on the chair he occupied earlier. "You know, you could go to her. Explain everything. And apologize profusely."

"And say what?” I snarl, “That I’m a vampire king being hunted by someone who wants me dead? Oh, and by the way, I’ve been watching you through street cameras like a deranged ghost with Wi-Fi?"

"Maybe that should not be your opening line," Griffin mutters, his lips twitching slightly.

I breathe out, slow and sharp, like it might stop me from setting the whole building on fire.

I call up Holland again, and the line only rings once before his voice grates into my ear, “Sir?”

"Get me everything on Miller’s Auto Works. The owner and every employee’s name, address, driver’s licenses, past convictions, even their blood types and what they had for breakfast two weeks ago."

The line goes dead without a reply from him, but I know he’s already running it.

Griffin’s watching me, his arms crossed, and his mouth pulled into something between amusement and concern. "You do realize this might not be about him. Or even her. This might be about you refusing to face what you want."

I glare at him before stating, "I know exactly what I want."

"Then why are you doing everything *except* going after it?" he asks incredulously.

Without answering him, I turn away from him and the screen. My reflection in my office windows looks like a ghost—one dressed in custom Italian suits and haunted by a woman who doesn’t know she owns him.

Eventually, I get my breathing under control and order, “Get out, Griffin.”

He doesn’t move, though, instead saying, “You know this doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a number. You’re reading into it because you’re scared.”

“I’m not fucking scared,” I snarl.

His reply is immediate and resolute, “No, you’re in love.”

My silence is answer enough. But he’s not done. Griffin stands, then crosses his arms, looking down at me as he says, “You can’t keep watching her like she’s a movie and expecting the plot to magically go your way.”

“I told you to leave.”

This time, he does turn away and heads toward the door, throwing over his shoulder, “And I’m telling you—fix it. Or someone else will.” Then he shuts the door on his way out.

The silence he leaves behind is deafening.

And all I can hear is her laugh—sweet, free, and echoing. A laugh that was caused and directed at a man who isn’t me.