I moved silently, muscles coiling, ready to destroy anything that posed a threat to her.
Stepped into the room. Scanned every corner. The closet. Under the bed. Behind the curtain.
Nothing.
Just her. Sleeping peacefully, curled into the warm spot I'd left.
But the feeling didn't leave.
I moved through the apartment—silent, methodical. Kitchen. Bathroom. Living room. Checked the windows. The locks. The balcony door.
Nothing.
Every room empty. Every shadow just a shadow.
I stood in her hallway, fists still clenched, jaw tight.
Maybe it's just my paranoia. The guilt of leaving her. The weight of what's waiting in New York.
I looked back toward her bedroom one last time. She was still asleep. Still safe.
Still mine.
I walked out, closing the door softly behind me.
The Ducati sat where I'd left it, gleaming in the early morning light. I swung my leg over, settled into the seat, and turned the key.
The engine roared to life—loud, powerful, ready to take me away from her.
Away from everything I'd just found.
I revved it once. Twice.
My phone buzzed in my pocket.
I pulled it out.
Unknown number.
The message appeared on screen:
"Safe travels, son. She will be waiting."
I stared at the screen, blood running cold.
He was watching. Right now. Somewhere.
I looked up, scanning the street, the windows, the shadows.
Nothing.
I revved the engine hard.
Fuck me sideways.
12
ALENA
