Hell has a door, and tonight, I’m walking her straight through it.
The tires screech against wet gravel as I pull up to the warehouse like a beast returning to its lair. But I’ve never good at listening, to reason, rules or pretty little things with stormy eyes and trembling lips.
She sits frozen in the passenger seat like she’s holding her breath. Like breathing might encourage fate to screw her harder.
“Out.”
She doesn’t move. Of course she doesn’t. Princesses aren’t used to being ordered around without a security detail or a butler waiting with a f*****g mint.
So, like the gentleman I am, I oblige.
I round the car, jerk the door open and haul her out by her soft wrist. She gasps, stumbles like she’s forgotten how her legs work.
“Where the hell are we?” She pits all attitude and z
