Chasing His Kickass Luna Back by Jane Above Story

Chatper 251

Abby

My apartment is dark when I finally get home tonight. It still smells faintly of

fresh paint from the new coat that my landlord put on, but I can still sense the

lingering scent of smoke, too.

I decide to avoid the harsh glow of the kitchen lights as I plop the wine glass

that’s been tucked under my arm onto the counter island, followed by the bag of

takeout food that I picked up on my way home.

It’s still warm, the grease beginning to seep through the bag as the faint smell of

garlic and onions permeates through the air. On any other night, I might be

delighted to dig in; but honestly, I have no appetite tonight. Even the thought of

Enter title…

food makes me sick after everything, after all of the failed dishes. But I know I

need to eat, and if I don’t, I know I’ll regret it later.

For a moment, I dig through my cupboard for a plate and some silverware, but

eventually decide to opt out of the plate.

The cork gives a subtle pop as I open the wine. No glass, I decide. Not tonight. I

take a swig straight from the bottle, the sharp taste of alcohol momentarily

cutting through the numbness. It’s a start.

I crash onto the couch, the plush cushions a welcome comfort after being on my

feet all day. The TV flickers to life with a soft buzz a moment later, and I navigate

myself in a world away from

how much time passes. Hours,

cheap movies, cheap wine, and even cheaper food. But

disdainful look in Logan’s

with Karl—keep playing in front of

movies on the screen.

to myself as I take

pathetic now, especially when I was so sure that I would

lost, either; it’s

tussles were had, insults

were ignored.

laughingstock. Hell, I

out of

couldn’t bear to go there tonight. I can’t even bear to glance

a chorus of sympathies that will

Right now, I just want

of wine finally empties. I don’t

in my head is enough proof. Groaning, I push my way

where

I pop that open, too, and make my way back to the

doorway with

on the TV, that I hear it: my wolf’s voice, clear

back of my

to wallow in misery,

forward?”

a slap to the face, or a rush of cold

completely by surprise in my current

from my grasp, wine splashing onto the carpet—a vibrant

and nearly fall

kitchen for a

say out loud as I grab the towel off of the

knees and dabbing it

“Now I’ve spilt wine

really your main concern, Abby?” My wolf’s voice

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