My chest tightens as my woman’s face smiles at me from dozens of angles in several different locations.
“Blood on the floor here,” Killian says quietly.
“She was here,” Damien grunts. “Ana Danbury.”
“Question is if she’s still alive,” I murmur as Ethan crouches next to the desk.
“He wiped his devices,” he says, shaking his head with disappointment. “No drives. No phones. Nothing digital left behind.”
I scan the room, every instinct screaming. “He knew we’d come,” I say, my fingers curling into a fist.
Ethan nods.
I stop in front of the wall. There’s one thing left behind on purpose: a folded note, my name written on the front. I unpin it and carefully unfold it, then read the words written in measured handwriting:
You’re always one step behind.
My vision tunnels with rage, my breathing growing harsh, and Killian’s hand lands on my shoulder. Solid. Grounding.
“He’s moved on,” Ethan says quietly. “New location. New angle.”
“Pack it up,” I order. “We don’t chase ghosts.”
Damien looks at me, anger at this creep who came close to his pregnant girlfriend still a flame in his blue eyes.
“Then what do we do?”
I meet his gaze.
“We wait,” I say. “And we let him make the next mistake.”
Because he will.
And when he does… I’ll be ready.
18
BASIA
Idon’t sleep.
I lie there and listen to the apartment breathe around me—the hum of the fridge, the soft tick of the radiator, the city murmuring through the windows.
I asked Caleb to sleep on the couch. To give me space to think, to decide how I want this to go. I thought I was okay with it when I woke up this morning, but after the stalker got close to me when I was with Morgan? I don’t know up from down anymore.
But I do know that my bodyguard rocked my world last night, and I’m still shaking from it.
My body is sore in places I don’t want to think about too closely. My thighs ache. My arms. There’s a warmth between my legs that isn’t embarrassment and isn’t shame and definitely isn’t fear. It’s something stronger than that.
Want. Desire.
That realization should scare me more than it does. What Caleb did to me? It should feel like a violation.
I roll onto my side and stare at the faint outline of a plant against the window—the pothos Morgan bought me as a jokebecause apparently it’s unkillable. I’m not convinced. I’ve never been good at keeping things alive. Not relationships. Not illusions. Not the version of myself who thought she was in control just because she stayed busy and polite and agreeable.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Another text from Morgan.
Mor:
