My phone buzzes on the counter.
I almost ignore it—until I see the name.
Grayson.
The text preview chills me before I even open it:I’m downstairs. Come to me, or I’ll come to you.
For a second, I can’t breathe. My pulse hammers so hard I feel it in my throat. I glance toward the couch, at Leo sleeping peacefully, completely unaware.
The room tilts, my stomach turning to ice.
He found me.
Chapter 18
Collision Course
Leo
The sound wakesme before the light does. A faint buzz, steady and rhythmic, cutting through the fog of half-sleep. My phone vibrates against the coffee table, the screen flashing Sage’s name.
For a second, I think she’s calling me from the studio. Maybe she couldn’t sleep. Maybe she wants to talk about last night. I fumble for the phone, squinting at the glare. But it isn’t a call—it’s a live connection already in progress.
A pocket dial.
I almost end it, thumb hovering over the red button—until I hear her voice.
“Get away from my car.”
She sounds sharp. Angry. Scared.
I sit up fast, the blanket sliding off my chest. My pulse spikes. There’s noise on the other end—echoing space, the metallic hum of a garage. Then her again, louder this time: “You’ve been stalking me—this is over. Leave the building.”
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. I press the phone closer to my ear. There’s a pause, then a man’s voice answers, low and calm in the kind of way that sets every instinct I have on edge. “Come on, Sage. You don’t mean that.”
It’s the voice that does it—the smugness. The familiarity. The way he says her name like it belongs to him.
My blood goes cold.
I’m off the couch before I even realize I’ve moved. The phone’s still pressed to my ear as I shove my feet into sneakers and grab the nearest hoodie. “Hang on,” I mutter, though she can’t hear me. “I’m coming.”
The world narrows to a tunnel—the click of the door locking behind me, the slap of my footsteps echoing down the stairwell. The air in the garage hits cold and stale, tinged with gasoline and concrete dust. Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, humming in and out like the start of a bad dream.
And then I see them.
Sage stands beside her car, I can see her body is rigid. For a split second, everything tunnels—the hum of the garage lights, the smell of oil and concrete. Her body rigid, arms crossed but trembling. A few feet away, a man leans against the hood, posture lazy but coiled with something mean underneath.
I know that face.
Grayson Locke.
My hands curl into fists before my brain catches up. The smirk on his face is the same one he wore after every cheap shot on the ice—cocky, practiced, calculated to make you swing first.
Sage turns at the sound of my footsteps, eyes wide. Fear flashes across her face—not of me, but of what’s about to happen.
“Leo,” she says, voice thin. “Don’t?—”
But it’s too late. The sight of her backed into a corner, of him standing there like he owns the ground she’s on, lights something primal in my chest.
