Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 120475 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 602(@200wpm)___ 482(@250wpm)___ 402(@300wpm)
How do I tell her that I still choose her anyway?
TWENTY-EIGHT
Christmas Eve Night
MOIRA
I lock up after myself at the shelter, grinning like an idiot. It was a good night. One of those rare, golden evenings where the universe doesn’t seem dead set on flipping me the bird. For once, Marci wasn’t here with her clipboard and her “Actually, Moira, could you just stick to the kitchen?” vibes. Nope. Tonight, I was unleashed. Unshackled. Free-range Moira.
I got to come out and serve the residents, not just scrub pots and pretend I don’t mind smelling like institutional lasagna. It felt meaningful, like I was part of something bigger. Like maybe I wasn’t just a walking disaster wrapped in questionable life choices.
I even saw Daniella again. Sweet Daniella with her nervous smile and the kind of haunted eyes that make you want to punch the entire male population. We talked. I told her about Bane and how my man doesn’t mind being seen out in public with me. I might’ve left out the part where I sort of catastrophically fumbled the end of the night and almost put his job in jeopardy. Details.
“Maybe you got a good one after all,” she said, and I could see in the wistfulness behind her eyes that she wanted to hope such a thing was possible.
“I think I did get a good one,” I whisper, grinning into the crisp night air.
I lock the last gate around the shelter with a satisfying clunk. The city hums softly around me, all twinkling lights and the distant sound of car tires hissing over wet pavement. Christmas Eve in the city—it’s kind of magical if you squint past the nihilistic dread.
I start walking toward the light rail, hands shoved deep in my pockets. No point wasting gas when the train runs right between the shelter and my place. I pull out my phone, hit play on my favorite playlist, and shove one earbud in. Just as I’m about to pop the second one in—
I feel it.
That prickling sensation at the back of my neck, like my instincts are waving tiny red flags and screaming, “Hey, dumbass, pay attention!”
A man is walking behind me.
Shit.
How long has he been there?
I glance over at my reflection in a dark shop window. Nothing suspicious. Just a girl walking home, pretending she’s not low-key panicking and planning an escape route.
Then I roll my eyes at myself. Jesus, Moira. Paranoid much? It’s Christmas Eve. It’s a big city. People exist. Some of them even walk places. Revolutionary, I know. He’s probably just some dude heading to a last-minute shopping spree to buy his girlfriend a scented candle she’ll pretend to love.
Still.
Working at a shelter for survivors of domestic violence has taught me a few things. Like how not every monster wears fangs. Some of them wear nice cologne and smiles that don’t reach their eyes. We’ve had angry exes show up before.
So, just to be safe, I casually jog across the street. You know, a totally normal, festive Christmas jog. The kind you do when you’re definitely not suspicious of being followed.
I glance over my shoulder.
Oh fuck. The man crossed the street, too.
Okay. Not festive. Not normal. Not good.
My heart does this weird somersault thing, landing somewhere between mildly anxious and, oh, we’re definitely gonna die tonight.
I quicken my pace, heading toward the well-lit street ahead. The light rail stop is just a block away, glowing like a tiny beacon of salvation. I can make it. I’ve got a head start.
Play it cool, Moira. Just a brisk Christmas Eve stroll. Nothing to see here.
Screw that.
I abandon all pretense of nonchalance and run. Full out sprint. No dignity. Just pure, adrenaline-fueled GTFO mode.
But I don’t get far.
Before I make it three steps, two guys in leather jackets pop out of nowhere. One grabs my left arm, while the other snatches my right.
I scream bloody fucking murder, thrashing and kicking wildly, landing a solid heel to someone’s shin.
Leather Jacket #1 grunts but doesn’t let go.
“Calm down,” he snaps.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want me to be polite while you’re kidnapping me?” I snarl, twisting and kicking some more.
But they’re strong. Too strong.
“HELP!” I scream dramatically because why not go full damsel when you’re being literally manhandled? Then I remember from self-defense training at the shelter to scream “fire,” not “help,” because people are nosy about fires but conveniently deaf about calls for help.
“FI—” is all I get out before a gloved hand slaps over my mouth, muffling the rest.
Mistake.
I bite down. Hard. I mean hard-hard. Like, “I hope you’re up to date on your tetanus shot” hard.
The guy yelps, yanking his hand back like I’m rabid—which, to be fair, isn’t entirely inaccurate. Fueled by pure rage and spite, I start kicking, aiming for shins, knees, or anywhere soft enough to cause maximum damage.