So he’d gotten not just the things I’d brought to the theater but everything I’d left behind in my apartment too, except—
No way—there were my books, stacked neatly on the dresser.
How?
How the hell had he gotten all this?
I stood there, my heart thudding. Had he been in my apartment? Had he sent someone? Had he been inside before?
The stalker label slammed back into my head like an icepick to the temple.
I should’ve been grateful, but instead, it creeped me out. Either he’d had someone retrieve this stuff…or he had done it himself. And that wasn’t the kind of care someone like me got for free.
I dropped the towel, pulled on the oversized shirt and shorts, and went back into the bathroom, clutching my makeup bag. The moment I caught my reflection, I flinched. Jesus—I barely recognized myself. There was black mascara streaked down my cheeks, shadow smudged beneath my eyes like bruises, and deep red lipstick smeared across my chin. I looked like I’d crawled out of a nightmare—and I guess in some ways, I had.
I unzipped the bag and grabbed the facial cleanser I always kept in the side pocket. Immediately, I lathered it onto my skin and scrubbed every speck of grime off. It was gentle and soothing. I wanted it all off—every trace of what they’d done to me, of what I’d been turned into under those lights. I kept scrubbing until my cheeks were red.
Then I grabbed the brand new toothbrush from the vanity—which had been laid out neatly like a hotel amenity—and brushed my teeth. Afterward, I pulled my damp hair into a messy bun on top of my head.
Only then did I start to feel human again. Not better. Just…less like something that had been recently packaged for sale.
I looked…normal. Well, except for the handprint-shaped bruises that were blooming on my legs and torso, not to mention the nasty claw mark on my inner thigh.
For a while, I stared at my reflection, but I couldn’t let myself hide in here forever. Whoever he was, I needed answers. Just standing here while my head spun wasn’t helping. I deserved toknow who he was. How could so much have happened between us, and I still didn’t know the man’s name?
The moment I opened the bedroom door, the aroma of apples and cinnamon hit me. My stomach growled, and my mouth watered. This was the last thing I had been expecting. Did he know I was starving, that I hadn’t eaten all day, or was it just something he thought would be comforting for me?
I turned the corner and stepped into a kitchen that looked like something in a five-star restaurant. Long marble counters. Clean lines. A wall of wine. And a brutal killer standing at the stove, casually stirring a yummy-smelling concoction.
He hadn’t heard me enter.
I should’ve quietly sneaked out of the apartment and gone down the stairwell, but instead, I stood there silently, watching him.
He wore different clothes now—a casual black T-shirt and joggers—very different from his usual bespoke suits or the tactical gear he had just been wearing. His jet-black hair was damp and messy. And God, the tattoos—ink spanning from his hands to wherever my mind dared wander—were like an epic story etched in flesh. The man was a canvas, his skin covered with monsters, warriors, and battle scenes. The art on his body—from the clock ticking on his knuckles to the demons that crawled along his arms—spoke of a life far darker than I wanted to know.
For a few breaths, I stood staring, mesmerized. His movements were calm and unbothered, as if we hadn’t just escaped a war zone of death and carnage, like he hadn’t just destroyed a criminal enterprise and carried a half-naked girl through gunfire and smoke.
He turned from the stove, frying pan in hand, and caught sight of me standing there. His gaze dropped unhurriedly, taking in the flush still clinging to my cheeks, the oversized shirt hangingoff my frame, and my bare feet, which were shifting like I didn’t know what to do with them.
His eyes didn’t leer. Theyconsumed.
I braced a hand on the doorframe.
He gestured toward the island. “Sit.”
His voice was rough, and I moved on instinct, sinking onto the barstool and resting my arms on the cool marble countertop.
Without a word, he began spooning the spiced apple and cinnamon concoction into two bowls. He finished them off with a generous dollop of something creamy and white.
A moment later, he set a bowl and spoon in front of me.
“Spiced apples sautéed in butter, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Topped with mascarpone,” he said. “I’m guessing you haven’t eaten all day. This’ll help settle your stomach—and your nerves. You need a little sugar after that adrenaline hit.”
The aroma was divine.
I picked up the spoon.
The first bite melted on my tongue.
