Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 80

Chapter 80

The world outside the car window is a blur of city lights and shadows, all distorted by the fog that has ominously started creeping in since we pulled away from the hotel’s curb. My check is pressed against the cool leather of the hackseat, and I can feel the thrum of the tires beneath me that’s steady and distant like a heartbeat that doesn’t quite belong to me.

Mike hasn’t said a word since helping me into the car. Not when I tripped because I miscalculated when I tried to slide into the car, not when I bled all over his shirt while I was holding onto him for stability, and not even when I started to shake and couldn’t stop. His silence isn’t cold, though. It’s steady and protective.

My palm stings like hell, there’s a throb blooming behind my right eye from where my head hit the stairs, and my wrist has a dull ache from when I tried to break my fall. But it’s the ache in my chest that drowns everything else out.

I turn my head and look at the rearview mirror, my voice small but not brittle, as I ask, “Mike?”

He quickly glances back at me and then says, “Yeah?”

“Back at the hotel,” I start slowly, trying to stitch the words together through the fog of adrenaline and doubt, “I overheard something. In the bathroom. A few women…they were talking about Thane.”

Mike doesn’t speak, but something shifts in the air. He’s listening, but it’s as if he’s also bracing himself for my next words.

I push forward, even though every part of me wants to stay quiet and pretend I didn’t hear it. “One of them said she’d let him ruin her, that he was probably dangerous, but she wouldn’t mind. Another said…there were rumors about him. About how he doesn’t age. How he’s not normal.”

Mike exhales through his nose, but he doesn’t look at me or interrupt me.

“And then the third one said she’s heard people whisper that he might be a vampire. Like that’s just a thing you can say out loud in a fancy bathroom,” 1 finish, rolling my eyes at the absurdity of it

Still, I get nothing from him. No scoff, no laugh, and not even a “You’re kidding, right?“.

There’s just silence that’s heavy and careful.

The cold in my bones deepens at his stoicism. “Is it true?” I ask, the words barely above a whisper. “Is he…

My voice trails off because I can’t make myself repeat the word. I feel stupid for asking. Stupid for needing to know. But I’ve seen the way Thane moves. The way be heals. The way his eyes flash when his moods change.

be shifts

is slightly in his seat, his eyes still

Il fixed on

the road ahead, as he says, It’s not my place to say, Miss Harley.”

Mike

And that, somehow, is the most solid confirmation I could’ve gotten.

I stare down at my bloody hand, at the line of red across my palm, and the rivulets that keep running sporadically down my wrist. Everything feels like it’s unraveling. And I don’t know what scares me more–the idea that Thane might be something inhuman…or the fact that it doesn’t make me want to run, not really, not quite yet.

The rest of the drive to my home is silent.

When we pull into my small driveway, Mike circles the car and opens my door. He helps me out of the car like I’m made of glass and guilt. He also doesn’t rush or manhandle me. With one arm around my waist and the other steadying me, we make our way up the short walkway to my front door. And each step feels heavier than the last, like the night is clinging to my ankles.

I fumble for my clutch to fish for my keys, but Mike gently takes it from my good hand. “I’ve got it,” he says, already unclipping it. He finds my kry quickly—because of course he does–and unlocks the door with quiet efficiency. And bless his soul, he doesn’t comment on the smear of blood across the clasp he had to touch in the process. He just opens the door like it’s his job to shield me from anything that might hurt.

The house is dark and still as we enter, and the familiar hush is so complete, it almost makes the chaos from earlier feel imagined. Almost,

Mike clicks on the small lamp near my reading chair and then guides me over to the couch, where he gently lets me sit on the cushion closest to the entryway. “Sit. I’ll grab the first–aid kit. Where is it?”

“In the kitchen,” I murmur, my voice paper thin. “In the small cupboard below the sink,”

I sink into the back of the couch like it’s a confession. The leather groans softly beneath me, familiar in all the ways my heart currently isn’t, as my wrist throbs, my palm stings, and my head is a quiet drumbeat of regret and too many questions.

1 bend forward and unstrap my heels, hissing slightly as the cool air hits my sore feet. I let them fall to the side with quiet thuds, tuck my legs in underneath me, and curl my good hand into the worn cushion to my left.

I don’t move and I don’t speak. And I don’t let myself think too hard. Because if I do, I’ll start asking the kind of questions I’m not ready to hear answers to. Not tonight, at least.

Mike returns a moment later, crouching in front of me, and places the first–aid kit on the coffee table with a soft clatter. He sits hack on his heels and meets my gaze, his own calm but unreadable.

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