Gun drawn. Safety off, I scan the hallway. My heart’s not racing; it’s slowing. Controlled. Focused.
“You have a gun?” she whispers behind me, voice small.
“Stay here,” I order. “If you hear shots, run. Get outside and wave to the cameras.”
I take a step toward the hall, but she grabs a fistful of my jacket, tugging hard.
“Flynn, don’t. He’s dangerous.” Her voice is barely there.
I glance back; she’s staring at me, eyes huge, lip bitten raw.
“He?” I taste the shift in her; she has this guilty look on her face.
“Please… let me call the police.” Her tears spill fast now, streaking down her cheeks.
“Go outside. Wave to the camera.”
She hesitates. “What if no one’s watching the feed?”
“They’re always watching.” The second I say it, I freeze.
I just fucked up.
Her face twists. “How the hell do you know—” Then she slaps my arm, hard. “Oh my fucking God, Flynn! You own the damn apartment, don’t you?”
I hiss, “Shhh,” and move forward, gun up.
The front clicks open; at least she’s listening.
I step into the hallway, every muscle wound tight, if someone’s in that bedroom, they won’t make it out.
My steps are quiet as I move down the hall. A draught slides through the air, carrying the sharp scent of rain. When I reach her bedroom door, I lean just enough to see inside. Shattered glass carpets the floor, glittering under the light. The window is blown open, the curtain twisting in the wind.
I enter carefully, gun raised, every sense awake. A brick lies on the floor, wrapped in tape and paper. I crouch, pull the note free, and read the words scrawled in thick black ink.
I told you to stop seeing him. You are mine.
“Flynn?” Her voice trembles from the doorway.
“I told you to stay in front of the cameras,” I answer, still staring at the note, my hand tightening around the paper until it crumples.
“Who is he, Autumn?” The question comes out low, rough, anger already climbing my throat. She’s hiding something. My little liar.
“No one. You don’t have to worry.” She turns as if to leave, but I catch her arm before she can take a step away; she flinches, and for a second I feel her pulse jump beneath my fingers.
“Who the hell wants to hurt you?” I pull her closer. She struggles, but it’s useless against my weight and grip.
“I don’t know!” she cries, voice cracking.
“What the hell does that mean?” My arm slides around her waist, gun still in my other hand.
“I have a stalker, okay?” The words fall out as if she’s said them a hundred times before.
Astalker. The word hangs between us like smoke.
Before I can reply, heavy boots slam against the wooden floor in the hallway. I spin her behind me and raise the gun again, every muscle coiled for the shot until Kaden appears with two of my men, weapons drawn.
“It’s us, Brady,” Kaden says quickly.
