“Fine, fine,” he says. “Hold on, I’ll bring up the tracker in his phone.”
There’s some clicking and then silence.
“He’s at the other apartment. The one he brought you to.” Of course. Why didn’t I think of that?
“Thanks,” I say, hanging up before he says anything else. I’m down the stairs and heading for my car. I remember where the place is. I’m good at directions. Once I’ve been someplace, even if I didn’t drive, I can find it again.
I let out the biggest sigh of relief when I see the BMW. Thank God.
I rush into the building and up to his floor. I don’t even bother with the doorbell. I just bang on the door with my fist.
“Sylas? Sylas, open up!” I don’t give a shit if I’m disturbing his neighbors.
The door opens and there he is. I launch myself at him and he catches me.
“Where were you?” I ask as I squeeze the life out of him.
“I told you I had some things to do at home,” he says, patting my back as if I’m overreacting. A red flag immediately goes up.
“You weren’t at home. I went there and you weren’t there. Why didn’t you call me? I needed you to call me.” He lets me go and I land with a thump on my feet. I’ve always liked our height difference, but I’m not very fond of it right now. I simultaneously want to kiss and strangle him.
“Sorry, I just got busy.”
“That’s not a fucking answer, Sylas. What the hell is going on?” I look around him. It wouldn’t surprise me if someone else were here.
He’s closed off to me and it reminds me of when he was playing the part of Quinn. At least, at first. He was much more reserved than his real personality. I hold his face in both hands and force him to look at me.
“You had me scared, Sylas. I need an explanation.” I dig my fingers into his skin, hard enough to hurt, but I need him to know how frightened I was that something had happened to him.
“I’m sorry. I just… I had something to do.” No, this is not fucking happening. I remove my hands from his face, put them on his chest and shove him backwards until we’re in the apartment. I turn to slam the door and lock it.
“Explain. Now.”
He takes a deep breath and then steps away from me.
“I was working, okay? I was doing a job.” My heart drops.
“What kind of job?” He raises an eyebrow.
“You don’t want to know.”
“Fuck you, I want to know. Tell me now.”
What is it with stubborn men? I’m surrounded by them. I cross my arms and I’m about two seconds away from stomping my feet like a toddler.
I need to tell him about his father, but I have to deal with this first.
“I was doing surveillance and I had to turn my phone off so I wouldn’t be detected. I’m sorry I didn’t call you, Saige. I really am.” That I believe. He does look sorry.
“Why couldn’t you just tell me that? Jesus.” I have to walk away from him for a minute. I go and sit on the hard couch. I hate this apartment. It’s clinical and cold and boring.
Sylas comes to sit next to me.
“You fucked up, Sylas. Big time. I really need to tell you something. If we’re going to do this, you and me, you have to tell me what’s going on. I don’t need to know every single detail, but if you’re going to be gone all night, I need to know.” He listens to me and nods, his hands clasped together.
“You’re right. I’m just not used to being accountable to someone else. It’s just been me for a long time.” I’m not exactly buying his explanation, but I have to tell him about his father.
“The reason I’m so upset with you is that my father told me something and he asked me not to tell you, but I think you need to know.” He sits up and I decide to take his hands in mine.
“Tell me,” he says, but there is absolutely no way to prepare him for this.
“Your father didn’t die in prison. He’s alive and he’s in Texas.” I watch as my words hit him. He’s still. So still. His hands are clamped on mine and his face is frozen.
Finally, he blinks and surges to his feet.
“That’s a lie. He’s dead.”
I shake my head.
“He’s not.” I reach into my back pocket and bring out one of the surveillance pictures I was able to snag. He unfolds it and stares at it. His hand shakes.
“It isn’t possible,” he whispers. “It just isn’t possible.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. I seem to be saying that a lot lately.
“No,” he says, crumpling up the picture and throwing it on the floor. “It’s a lie. He’s dead. He’s dead!” He storms through the apartment, and, if he’s anything like my father, I’m glad there isn’t a whole lot of stuff for him to destroy.
“I don’t know more of the details. My father does. He wants to kill him.” That makes him whirl around and glare at me.
“Where is he?” I’m not sure which “he” Sylas is referring to.
My throat is so dry. I need some water. “My father? Or yours?”
“Yours,” he growls. “Mine is dead.”
Shit.
“I don’t know. I think he’s at home.” As soon as I say it, he’s charging toward the door and I’m rushing after him.
“If you’re going to see him, you’re taking me with you,” I yell, but I don’t think he hears me. It’s hard for me to keep up with him as he barrels down the street to the BMW. He gets in and slams the door and I have just enough time to yank open the passenger side and throw myself in before he peels away from the curb.
I click my seatbelt, and tell Sylas to put his on, but he doesn’t even seem to notice that I’m in the car. His foot is slammed down on the accelerator and he runs through two red lights.
“Sylas. You’re going to get pulled over and then we’re never going to get there.” He doesn’t acknowledge me, but he does pause a little at stop signs and he’s not so aggressive on the accelerator.
We make it to my parents’ house in one piece and I cringe because my mother’s car is there, along with my father’s. This is going to be interesting to explain.
Sylas out of the car and through the door before I can unclick my seatbelt. I rush after him and Martha comes out, flustered.
“Where is he?” Sylas roars. Dad appears at the top of the stairs and Sylas take them two at a time to get to him.
“Sylas? What are you doing here?” Dad says warily.
“I told him,” I say, loud enough for Dad to hear before Sylas gets to him. He reaches Dad before I’m halfway up the stairs. I scream as Sylas grabs my father’s throat and shoves him backward until he’s slammed up against the wall.
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Sylas roars into my dad’s face. I finally reach them and throw myself on Sylas.
“Let go of him!” I scream in his ear. But it’s like trying to move a raging bull. I watch as Dad tries to get free, his eyes popping and his skin getting whiter.
“Let go!” I scream, pounding on Sylas. If I don’t do something, Sylas is going to kill him.
“Sylas, you’re killing him.” He must hear me on some level because he opens his hand and Dad crumples to the floor, gasping. I rush to him, to make sure he’s okay.
“Dad?” He gasps and holds his hand up.
“I’m fine,” he wheezes and coughs a bunch of times. There are red marks on his throat and I know there are going to be bruises.
He slides upward until he’s sitting with his knees up and his back against the wall.
“I’m fine, really Saige,” he says. His voice is raspy and I wonder if I should call an ambulance. I turn and look up at Sylas. The rage is still in his eyes, but there’s something else there that’s even stronger.
Pain.
I’ve seen it before, but never this strong. Never this intense.
“Sylas?” I say and he looks down at me. He clenches and unclenches his hands, staring at them as if he’s never seen them before.
“I’m sorry?” he says, like it’s a question. “I’m sorry.” He blinks, totally dazed.
“Are you okay?” I ask Dad again. He nods and I stand. I reach out to Sylas. I touch his shoulder and then push him a little. He doesn’t resist, so I grab him and lead him down the hall to my room. Even though he just tried to throttle my dad, I’m not afraid of him.