My breath becomes sharp, broken, uneven.
I am alone. I am trapped. I am disappearing into the dark.
The van slows before I even register the shift. My lungs burn from shallow, panicked breaths, and every muscle in my body feels coiled tight, ready to snap. Someone grips the back of my coat and yanks me upright. Another man curses under his breath as he steadies me.
Metal screeches. The doors swing open.
Cold air rushes in. It’s damp and heavy, tinged with oil and dust. A warehouse. Wide, echoing, lit by flickering overhead lamps that cast long shadows across concrete floors. My feet stumble when they drag me out, shoes scraping, knees buckling from the rough handling and the fear spiraling through me.
Simon stands in the center of the warehouse—alone, still, deliberate. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms, revealing strong, controlled lines of muscle. His posture is relaxed in a way that feels impossibly dangerous, like he owns every inch of this room, every breath in it.
His face—cold. Carved from something harder than stone. No warmth or softness. Only calculation sharpened into something lethal.
My breath catches painfully.
The men holding me stop a few feet away, keeping their grips tight. They wait—silent, respectful, tense—like soldiers awaiting a command.
Simon doesn’t look at them.
He looks at me.
A slow sweep of his eyes—head to toe, pausing just long enough to make my skin prickle with something between fear and disbelief. He steps closer with that same unnerving calm, the sound of his shoes echoing off the high ceiling. The overhead lights skim across his features, deepening every sharp angle of his jaw.
He lifts his hand. A flick of his fingers—barely a gesture.
The men release me instantly, stepping back like shadows dispersing on command. My legs shake. I nearly collapse but catch myself with both hands braced against my knees. My heart slams so violently it hurts.
He sent them away. He wanted me alone. That realization is a cold spike through my ribs.
Simon waits until the men retreat toward the van, stationing themselves near the entrance. Not watching me—watching him. As if he is the only threat in the room. As if he is the only person whose reactions matter.
My mouth feels dry. My pulse is unsteady, a frantic pulse beneath my skin. Something inside me wants to scream, but fear has locked my throat tight.
I force my voice out anyway. “What—why…” I swallow hard and lift my head, meeting his eyes, even though every instinct tells me not to. “Simon, what the hell is this? Why did you—why did you do this to me?”
His expression doesn’t shift.
He walks toward me with slow, measured steps, stopping close enough that I have to tilt my head up to keep looking at him. The warehouse feels suddenly smaller. Colder. More dangerous.
“You walked too close to something you shouldn’t have,” he says.
His voice is low. Controlled. Deadly in its simplicity.
My stomach drops.
“That’s it?” I whisper, disbelief strangling the words. “I walked too close? I was just… Simon, why didn’t you just talk to me? Why didn’t you warn me?”
“I did warn you.” His eyes narrow in a way that makes the temperature feel lower. “You didn’t listen.”
My jaw clenches. “You’re the one who followed me.”
“I watched,” he corrects calmly. “I protect what interests me.”
The words hit like ice.
My breath catches. “This is not protection,” I say, voice cracking. “This is kidnapping.”
His gaze doesn’t waver. “This is prevention.”
