22. Kaden

22

KADEN

As I step into the house, I immediately sense that Layla's not here. A half-drunk cup of tea now cold, the lack of her perfume's aroma, and a book lies open with a bookmark hastily placed between its pages, slightly crinkled from what may have been a stray teardrop.

The stillness in the air is broken only by the soft tick of the kitchen's wall clock, a constant reminder that seconds are slipping by, time is ebbing, and with it, my chances.

I rip my gloves off, discarding them on the wooden table next to her abandoned cup, my fingers running across the smooth ceramic surface as if to feel where her mouth lingered.

"Layla?"

No answer.

"Wraithing, where are you? Don't make me start a countdown before I find and punish you."

Nothing.

Gritting my teeth against the rising unease, I stalk past the table and into the kitchen, devoid of her presence. I check her favorite reading chair in the main room—empty. After listening for the creak of footsteps on the second floor and hearing nothing, I storm up the staircase, gripping the banister as I leap over steps three at a time, the hard thud of my boots showcasing a warning to whomever might have her and what I will do to them when I catch them.

I envision their bones snapping under my strength, blood splattering on the walls I've promised to keep safe. My mind spirals into the abyss, picturing sick scenarios laid out by the demons that haunt me: Layla taken by someone, her fear-stricken face, the sound of her screams muffled by a calloused hand.

God damn it. I punch the wall next to me, the pain coursing through my knuckles doing little to distract from the open terror clawing at my insides.

Not again. Fuck, not again…

"LAYLA!" I bellow.

It slithers down the hall, unmet by any response. I grip the first doorknob, Layla's room, rattling it in its socket.

Locked.

I yank back my fist and ram it against the wood, cracking under my force, then kick it open.

Her room is untouched.

The bed is neatly made, the curtains drawn back revealing the panoramic view of Greycliff. My eyes scan wildly over the room and over her belongings like her favorite lip balm on the dresser, her glasses on her bedside table, her coat hanging from a hook on her closet door, but no Layla.

Until I notice a slash of pink nestled in her comforter. The phone I made clear that she have on her at all times.

Gripping it until the screen cracks from the force, I pull up her most recent text message asking Ethan to come pick her up. The screen blinks out just as I finish reading, the broken glass under my fingertips a mocking reminder of how I've lost control. Of everything. The phone, the woman, the situation.

Tossing the dead phone over my shoulder, I turn and stalk into the guest room where all my equipment is and sign in to the surveillance feed.

Images flicker across the multiple screens, each representing a different part of the house—from the front porch to the staircase, the living room to the bedrooms. My fingers play the keyboard like an instrument, uploading, then rewinding the feeds and setting them to play as I watch with a vulturine intensity.

There she is.

On screen, Layla moves about in her usual manner—alive and vibrant. Her hair is messily pulled into a bun on top of her head, tendrils escaping to frame her face in a way I find irritatingly endearing. She's wearing her favorite oversized sweater I left her in before doing perimeter checks.

I swallow hard, allowing myself a second to just watch. To see her alive and well, unharmed. It's a comfort that does little to quell my soaring anxiety.

Then I see it—the moment she stares at bit too long at my retreating form out of the house, then bolts into action as soon as I shut the door behind me.

Oh, you little…

Layla races up the stairs and into her room. I flip the screen to the cameras in her bedroom, my vision turning into slits as she peels off her sweater and steps into a pretty, sexy dress.

A thousand questions ricochet through my mind. What was she thinking? Where is she going? Why did she leave without telling me after the recent hell she's been through? I'm stunned into silence as she reaches for her purse, pulls on a coat, and stares at her phone, likely sending that message to Ethan before tossing it onto the bed .

She then steps into the hallway and pauses in front of the guest room, biting her lower lip before she strides down the staircase.

But she doesn't stop there.

My throat tightens as I watch her move with purpose toward the front door, deftly disarming the security system. She casts one last look around her home before she steps outside and shuts the door behind her.

I slam my fist on the table, cracking the wooden surface. A choking sound comes out of me that's halfway between a laugh and a scoff. Layla's audacity baffles me, infuriates me.

My hands ball into fists, and I hurl the mouse across the room. The device shatters when it hits the wall, plastic shards raining down onto the worn carpet.

I rise so abruptly that my chair skids backward and topples over.

"Goddamn it, Layla!"

With serrated breaths, I swipe my arm across the table, sending the screens teetering before they crash to the floor, shattered glass spreading out like a spiderweb.

My chest heaves as I stare at the wreckage of my control center—my connection to her. In Layla's dewy-eyed bravery—or is it utter recklessness?—she's torn that away from me, left me blinded in a world dangerous beyond her comprehension.

I kick over the last of the monitors as I storm out of the room, the final image of Layla flickering into black as it topples.

"Foolish girl," I hiss under my breath, gripping the banister as I thunder down the stairs.

My boots hammer against the old floors until I push open the front door and step into the foggy Greycliff air. My hands are unsteady, but my mind—my mind is pinpoint sharp.

I huff out a breath, running a hand over my stubble-clad jaw before glancing up at the quiet lighthouse standing sentinel over me.

With nothing but instinct to guide me now, I head for my black Lincoln parked nearby. Once planted in the driver's seat, a bitter taste rises in my throat, souring the surrounding air.

Of course it had to be Ethan coming to her rescue. Always lurking around Layla like an annoying pop-up notification, even though I'd warned him off. Even after I'd left him gasping on the ground from one mean hook to his windpipe. But perhaps the fool thought I wouldn't find out. Or worse, he didn't care.

I slam the dashboard with my palm, rattling the vehicle, a dangerous fury threatening to burst from my chest. I don't bother to suppress it. I need it. It fuels me, pushes me onward as the engine roars to life.

Gravel pings against the undercarriage like gunfire as I peel out of the driveway and take the winding road into town, all while my GPS begins to churn.

Finally connected to a secure server, my dashboard's screen flickers to life, displaying a live feed from a tracking device I slipped into Ethan's van during our last encounter. A precaution. A prediction. And now, it seems, a prophecy fulfilled.

Then I slip on my mask.