He reached out. Fingers brushed my cheek. I didn’t flinch. I waited until he stepped behind me. Until I felt the shift in his weight. Until I smelled the sweat on his neck.
And then I moved. My hand snapped free. Fast.Faster than he expected.
I grabbed the broken edge of the chair. Slammed it back. He cursed. Lunged. Too late.
I twisted. The chair cracked. Wood splintered as I wrenched my ankle free. He reached for my hair. I drove the jagged chair leg into his thigh. He screamed. High. Sharp. Ugly.
I wrenched the wood free. Blood sprayed. He staggered. I stood.Unsteady.Legs shaking. Hands slick.
I grabbed the knife from his belt. Small. Dull. Didn’t matter. I raised it. He hesitated. Only for a breath.
And in that second, I screamed. Not a cry. Not a name. A roar. Louder than the walls. Louder than the pain. My voice ripped out of my throat, raw and broken, soaked in fury.
“WOLFE!”
The name hit the ceiling.
Echoed.
The man lunged. I ducked. Swung the knife. Caught his shoulder. He screamed again. And I ran. Not far. Just enough. Just to the hallway. Just to the cold. I screamed again.
“WOLFE!”
I didn’t scream for rescue. I screamed for vengeance. Wolfe wasn’t coming to save me. He was coming to end them. Until it didn’t sound like a name anymore. Until it sounded like a war cry. Until I knew he would hear it. I wasn’t asking to be saved. I was calling him to kill.
33
WOLFE
I leftthe door open when I came in.
It didn’t matter. Nothing could get in that hadn’t already taken her. The lock clicked anyway. Old habits. I let it. The air was cold. Not from the windows. Not from the outside. From the absence.
The lights were still on in the hallway. The living room bathed in soft amber. Someone had dimmed the sconces. Probably Loyal. Or Barron. They didn’t want me walking into darkness.
They didn’t understand that darkness was the only thing left that felt familiar.
I walked in slow. Boots quiet against the floorboards. My coat heavy around my shoulders.
I’d barely spoken since the warehouse. Since the screaming. Since her voice. They’d played the footage over and over. Pixelated. Warped. Echoing off those concrete walls like it was a warning.
But I’d know it anywhere. That wasn’t a cry for help. It was a goddamn weapon. She screamed for me.
She called me like she knew the city could hear it.
And I hadn’t answered.
I stepped into the kitchen. Everything was exactly as she left it. Her mug on the counter. The one she never rinsed.
I picked it up. Felt the cold ceramic in my hand. The faint lip print along the rim. My jaw locked.
I set it down. Not gently. Let it scrape the marble. The hallway stretched in front of me like it had grown longer. I walked it anyway.
The first door I passed was the guest room. Empty. Cold. I didn’t look in. The second was mine. The door was ajar. I stopped. Her scent was still there. Smoke. Cedar. Skin.
I closed my eyes. Breathed it in like a prayer. Then pushed the door open. The bed was made. She hadn’t slept here. Not in days. Not since Barron. Not since I told her she was still mine.
My shirt was folded at the foot of the bed. The one she wore when she let me fuck her mouth like silence was the only language she trusted.
