This girl didn't hide anything.
Her violence poured off her like heat from a forge, raw and honest and absolutely uncontrolled. She wasn't trying to manipulate or seduce or negotiate. She was just trying to survive.
"Almost there, little one," I said, not sure if I was talking to the dog or the girl.
"Don't call me that," she snarled, punctuating each word with another strike against the door.
Thesafehousewasa converted industrial loft in Queens, three floors up with no exterior fire escape—I'd had it removed two years ago, right after I acquired the property. The neighbors thought I was paranoid. They were right, but not paranoid enough, apparently, since I was now harboring the most wanted woman in Brooklyn.
Eva came through the door like a soldier entering hostile territory. Her mismatched eyes swept the space in a pattern forged from paranoia—exits first, weapons second, defensive positions third.
I set the puppy down on the kitchen tiles, and he immediately peed, a puddle spreading across the Italian marble I'd had installed last year. The smell hit instantly—sick animal and fear, a combination that would take industrial cleaners to remove.
"He needs water," Eva said, like I was too stupid to understand basic animal care.
"No shit," I muttered, opening cabinets until I found a mixing bowl that would work. The kitchen was fully stocked—I kept all my safe houses ready for extended stays—but I'd never had a dogin here before. Or a girl who looked ready to tear my throat out with her teeth if given the opportunity.
While I filled the bowl from the filtered tap, she edged toward the door. Not obviously, not directly, but in that way people did when they thought they were being subtle. A step here, a shift there, gradually decreasing the distance between herself and what she thought was freedom.
"It's biometrically locked," I told her without looking up from the bowl. "Only opens for my palm print."
She froze, then tried the handle anyway. Because of course she did. The lock gave a soft electronic beep, denying her access. She pulled harder, threw her shoulder against it, rattled the handle like she could intimidate technology into compliance.
"What if there's a fire?" she asked, and there was something in her voice that wasn't quite fear. More like she was calculating whether setting the place ablaze would be worth it if it meant escape.
"Then we burn," I said simply, setting the water bowl down for the puppy, who attacked it desperately, splashing more than he drank.
She processed this information, those impossible eyes narrowing as she worked through the implications. No fire escape, no emergency exit, no way out except through me. I could see her mind working, running through options like a computer processing data, discarding impossible plans and looking for the one crack in my security.
Then she bolted.
Not for the door—she'd already established that was pointless. She ran for the bathroom, moving faster than I'd expected given her injuries. Those long legs covered ground quickly, and she slammed the bathroom door behind her before I could react.
I didn't chase her immediately. Part of me was curious what she'd try. The bathroom window was small, barely two feetwide, with a three-story drop to concrete below. The glass was reinforced, but not bulletproof like the car windows. If she was desperate enough—and she definitely was—she might actually attempt it.
The sound of metal on metal told me she'd found the shower curtain rod. Smart. Use it as a lever, break the glass, maybe wrap the curtain around her hands to protect them from the edges. I gave her thirty seconds, counting them off in my head while the puppy lapped water and shook and generally made a mess of my kitchen floor.
Twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty.
I walked to the bathroom, didn't run. No point in seeming desperate. The door wasn't locked—she'd been too focused on the window to bother with that detail. I turned the handle and stepped inside to find exactly what I'd expected: Eva halfway out the window, three stories up with nothing but a straight drop to the alley below.
She'd broken the glass efficiently, used the curtain rod just like I'd predicted. The curtain itself was wrapped around her hands, already spotted with blood from where the glass had cut through the thin fabric. Her upper body was through the opening, legs kicking for purchase on the sink, and for one terrifying second, I thought she might actually make it through before I could stop her.
I grabbed her ankle just as she got her hips to the frame.
She came back through the window fighting like something feral, all nails and teeth and pure rage. Her heel caught me in the jaw—a solid connection that snapped my head back and filled my mouth with the iron taste of blood. She'd split my lip, maybe loosened a tooth. Good aim for someone being dragged backward through broken glass.
"You're going to kill yourself," I informed her, using my weight advantage to pull her fully back inside. She was lighter than I'dexpected, all bones and anger, but she made up for it with sheer viciousness.
"Just let me go," she spat, twisting in my grip like a snake. Then she did something I hadn't expected—she sank her teeth into my forearm.
Not a quick bite, not a warning nip. She bit down like she was trying to tear through to bone, her jaw locking with desperate strength. I could feel individual teeth, molars grinding against muscle, incisors breaking skin. The pain was immediate and intense, shooting up my arm into my shoulder, white-hot and primitive.
My first instinct was violence. Ball my fist, drive it into her temple, make her release through pure force. That's what I'd been trained to do, what every instinct screamed for. You didn't let someone bite you without consequences. You established dominance, maintained control, showed them that attacking you came with a price.
But I didn't hit her.
Maybe it was the desperation in the bite, the way she was using her last weapon because everything else had been taken from her. Maybe it was the tears I could see gathering in her eyes even as she tried to tear through my arm. Or maybe I just didn't want to be another man who'd hurt her, another reason for her to bite the next person who got too close.
