My phone buzzes. I flinch so hard the straw in my coffee trembles.
The message preview glows on the screen. Just Mak’s name. Just that word—Makari, bold like a dare.
My fingers hesitate a moment before I flip it open.
Mak:We’ll talk about this later. Keep Andrea close. I don’t care that she’s a girl, as long as she’s mine.
My breath catches.
God, he’s infuriating.
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts. Who says that? Who phrases things like that? Possessive. Arrogant. Commanding. And yet?—
And yet the protectiveness in it hits somewhere I don’t want to acknowledge. It aches deep in my chest. Does he mean it? In the woods earlier today, it sounded like hedidcare that she was a girl, a daughter.
He doesn’t text like a boss. He texts like… like something else. Something that scares me in a different way.
I stare at the message for too long. My heart tightens, softens, and flips. I’ve spent years training myself not to feel like this.
“Nope,” I whisper. “We are not doing this.”
I flip the phone face down again.
A part of me wants to text back something biting, something sarcastic. Another part wants to say thank you. Another part—god help me—wants to call him. Hear his voice. Hear whatever tone comes after that hurt I saw in his eyes.
Instead, I sip my iced coffee mechanically and try to breathe. The cafe is easy noise around me. Cups clinking, laughter, a barista calling out drinks. All the normalcy I should feel safe in. But inside I’m fracturing.
Mak is my boss. And he’sdangerous.He shouldn’t be texting me at all, much less texting me things that make my stomach twist.
He shouldn’t look at me the way he does. Or make me feel the way I feel.
So why do I feel like I want more?
“Oh God,” I mutter, rubbing my forehead with my palms. “This is a disaster.”
When the coffee is half gone, I force myself to get up and leave before I can spiral anymore. The hardware store is only a block away, and I need a few things—nails, screws, maybe a small toolbox. The new house needs some touch-ups, and working with my hands always helps clear my mind.
The bell chimes as I enter, and I’m comforted by the dusty smell, the quiet aisles, the simple certainty of things like bolts and paint samples. I move toward the back of the store, picking up a basket. The cashier introduces himself.
“Bruce Romero, nice to meet you, miss.” He points me in the direction of some basic tool kits, and I turn.
Then something catches my eye.
Movement across the street.
Eric.
My throat goes tight. He’s in the alley behind a row of shops, his posture tense. And he’s not alone. A man stands with him—a man in an immaculate dark suit that doesn’t belong in this small town. Tall. Sharp. Predatory. He looks almost like Mak’s counterpart, but city-slick and lean where Mak is broad and rugged.
My heartbeat stutters.
Eric’s hands move as he talks—no, argues. His face is flushed, maybe from the warm afternoon. But I remember back when we’d argue, when he’d go in on me for having an extra mouthful of dessert or another beer with friends.
Then the man removes his suit jacket with a slow, deliberate motion.
The next moment happens too fast and too slow all at once: The man grabs Eric by the throat. Eric’s back slams against the brick wall. His boots scrape against the pavement. His hands claw at the fingers around his throat, but the man doesn’t budge.
I freeze. My breath lodges in my chest.
