Eddie reaches out and squeezes my hand.“We’ll figure this out.You’re never alone.You’re safe.”
I almost laugh.Safe.What a quaint concept, but I am safer right now than I would’ve been in my car twenty minutes ago.
Eddie and James step off the porch together, an uneasy truce settling between them as they descend the steps, James heading toward his van parked half on, half off the curb, and Eddie’s sedan next to my car in the driveway.They exchange one last loaded look before climbing into their respective vehicles.
I step back inside the house, close the door, and lock it twice.
The house exhales.
Shadows reach toward me and cup my jaw, gentle and possessive.
“Mine,” Daddy murmurs.
“Yours,” I agree.
Because it’s true.Because denying it is pointless.
But as his darkness wraps around me like a shroud, I can’t shake the image burned into my brain.
The figure in black tucked into my back seat like a surprise party with knives.
He’ll be back.
And next time, it may not happen at my house where Shadow Daddy can save me.
After everything, what a fucking idiot I am to not expect the unexpected.
Chapter 4
Sera
Everycarthatpullsup to Gas N’ Go makes my spine tighten.Every shadow that passes the window sends my heart racing.
The memory of that grainy footage plays on a loop behind my eyes—a figure sliding into my back seat, waiting.It’s a distraction I don’t need.My target is locked on Vincent, and if I truly want to take him down, I have to stay focused.
The bell above the door jingles, and she steps in—the broken woman from before.Same hollow eyes, same careful way of moving, like her body is a cracked vase held together by sheer will.
But there are differences today.Fresh bandages peek from beneath her sleeves.The slightly wrong shade of makeup cakes around a fresh bruise, purple-black against her jaw.
She doesn’t look at me as she wanders the aisles, picking up candy bars and putting them back, examining chip bags.
I understand rituals of avoidance.
Finally, she approaches the counter and places a pack of gum and a lighter between us.
“Four fifty-three,” I tell her after I ring her up.
She fumbles with her wallet, and a receipt flutters out.I catch it before it hits the floor and hand it back to her.
“Sorry,” she whispers.
“Don’t be.”I bag her items and slide them across the counter.“You have nothing to be sorry for.”
Her eyes lift then and meet mine.Something passes between us—a recognition of wounds.
“Michael,” she says, the name barely audible.“His name is Michael Devlin.”
Michael Devlin.It’s short.Ordinary.The kind of name that hides monsters.
