Crossed (Never After Series)

A LITTLE BIT OF DROOL IS DRIED TO THE SIDE OF my cheek, and my hair is stuck to it. I blink slowly, gathering my bearings as I reach up and rip away the strands and then sit up entirely, the scratchy blue quilt falling to my waist.

Where am I?

I stretch, lifting my arms above my head and reveling in the way a pop crackles down my spine. Slipping out of the bed, I look around the small room. It’s very bland, just a full- size bed with plain sheets and a dark blue quilt and a small desk in the corner with a lamp on the right- hand side. Across the way, there’s a door leading to a bathroom, and suddenly the day’s events flood through me, reminding me that I’m up high in the mountains, hiding out like a criminal.

Technically, I guess I am one.

I wonder if she’s still alive.

My body drops back down on the edge of the bed, and my fingers twist in my lap. I look down at my nails, noticing there’s still bits of dried red flakes caked beneath them, and flashes of just how much Florence can bleed assault my memory. I search deep inside me for feelings of remorse, but I come up empty.

The only thing I feel is satisfaction that the bitch finally got what she deserved and a little bit of power flowing back into my soul that I had lost when Parker shoved his filthy cock inside me.

How dare she try to put Quinten on a stage like that. The only thing I regret is doing something that could truly take me away from Quinten now, when I’ve worked so hard and sacrificed so much to be able to keep myself in his life.

Quinten.

His name is a shot of anxiety straight into my heart, and my stomach rises and drops like a roller coaster. I shove the blankets off me, the fabric suddenly feeling stifling, and I jump up from the bed, pacing back and forth, my fingers tugging at the roots of my hair. How could I have left him like this?

I consider looking for my phone but stop myself, assuming Cade took it with him so I couldn’t be tracked here. And I get that, I do, but until Quinten is here with me, I won’t be able to breathe. Even though I saw Dalia take him away with my own two eyes, and even though I know being here is what’s for the best…I still feel like a piece of shit for not being with him right now, when he’s the one thing that I need.

Him and Cade.

Cade’s going to get him. Everything will be fine.

It fucking terrifies me to trust someone else so fully, but I don’t really have another choice. And I can’t go back to Parker. Not now. I’m sure he’s already trying to hunt me down, either to kill me or to break me, depending on his mood.

Oh God. What if he gets to Dalia?

Bile burns my throat and I race to the bathroom, dropping to my knees so hard they crack against the tile. I fling up the seat and wait for something to happen, but instead of dry heaves, I just feel sick.

Cade will get to them, I tell myself again.

My fingers grip the side of the toilet tighter.

Sharp shots of panic flit around my chest because he knows where Dalia lives.

Cade will bring Quinten to me, and we’ll figure out what to do from there.

But I hope he brings Dalia too. She isn’t safe in town as long as Parker is there.

I must lie on the cold bathroom floor for thirty minutes until I’ve worked through the panic, reassuring myself that everything will be okay because it just has to be.

Slowly, I rise to my feet, glancing at myself in the mirror and seeing, once again, that I’m filthy from the day. My mind flip- flops, debating on whether I should take a shower or go venture downstairs and see if I’m all alone.

I should introduce myself to whoever’s staying here. I glance down at my fingers again, cringing, and decide a shower is absolutely necessary.

The heat of the water eases my sore muscles and relaxes the tension that’s been clinging onto my skin for the past whoever knows how long. I still feel sick and torn apart, worried about Quinten, disgusted by Parker, and nervous about what I did to Florence, but something about knowing Cade is in my corner has me breathing a little easier.

He’ll take care of everything.

The mirror is fogged after my shower and I stand in front of it, reaching out and swiping a line to look at myself in the reflection. I’m not sure what I expect to find, but I’m surprised when the person staring back at me is still just…me.

Nothing extraordinary, no harshness to my gaze that wasn’t there before, just plain old Amaya Paquette.

Sighing, I walk back out to the bedroom, scrunching up my nose at the dirty clothes I have to get back into. But it’s not like I have any other option. I get redressed, scanning the fabric for bloodstains and feeling lucky that I chose something dark to wear so they don’t stand out, and then I leave the room, taking in my surroundings fully for the first time since I got here.

I wasn’t exactly in my right mind. Honestly, I’m still not sure that I am.

The stairs creak as I make my way down them, and my hand grips the banister, the wood cool and smelling like Pine-Sol. The entire atmosphere is a little eerie, and goose bumps sprout over my entire body.

There’s a fire crackling in the corner of the living room and a small open frame without a door that leads to a narrow kitchen on the left.

Maybe I should grab a drink. Chamomile tea, or something to help calm my nerves while I sit here and wait.

I walk into the dimly lit kitchen, past the small white refrigerator that’s humming into the air, and open the cupboard next to it, looking for a cup.

The floor creaks behind me right as I grab a glass, and I spin around, my heart jumping into my throat. The glass in my hand drops to the ground and shatters, slicing up my ankles and pooling at my feet. But I don’t feel the sting.

The woman’s eyes grow wide and she stumbles back, a hand flying to her chest. “Amaya,” she whispers, blood draining from her face.

My mouth drops open and I blink in disbelief.

Because standing right in front of me is my mother.