36
Wren
The screech of brakes jolts me awake.Fuck. I blink, disoriented, wiping a trail of drool from my chin.
Blinking away the fog of a dead sleep, my eyes dart to the station sign. Thank fuck, it’s Western. I didn’t miss my stop.
I stumble to my feet, my body protesting after forty minutes of dead sleep in a position that would make a contortionist wince. The train doors hiss open, and I lurch out onto the platform, my heels clicking an unsteady rhythm on the concrete.
The station’s nearly empty at this hour. Just me and a couple of night owls who look about as fresh as week-old sushi. I make my way to the exit, each step sending a jolt of pain up my legs.
Urgh. Whoever invented heels deserves a special place in hell.
Suddenly, I feel it… that prickly feeling you get when someone’s watching you.
My Spidey sense is tingling.
Stay frosty, Wren.
Probably just my imagination, but I’m not taking any chances. I slow my pace, taking in the surroundings.
The stairs are getting crowded now, but I’m not letting my guard down. I pull out my phone, pretending to check the time. But I’m not looking at the screen. I’m using the camera, scanning the area behind me.
Two figures. A man and a woman. Tall, well-dressed. Could be late-night commuters. Could be trouble.They’re keeping their distance, but something about them sets off every alarm bell in my head.
“Fuckballs,” I mutter under my breath. This is not the life I signed up for. I pick up my pace, my feet screaming in protest. No time to change into flats now.
The station exit spits me out onto the street. The air hits me like a slap to the face, a cocktail of exhaust fumes, stale piss, and that uniquely Chicago mix of lake and concrete. A few cars zoom past, their drivers in a hurry to be anywhere but here. Can’t blame ‘em.
To my right, a 24-hour convenience store’s neon sign flickers like a dying firefly. Some sad bastard’s hunched over the counter, probably buying discount beer and regret. On the corner, a food truck’s still open, the smell of greasy tacos hanging in the air. My stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since noon.
Tough shit, stomach. We’ve got bigger problems.
I glance back quickly. They’re still there, those two well-dressed shadows. Fuck me.
I make a sharp right at the next corner, ducking into an alley. It’s a gamble, but I need to know if they’re really following me.
I duck into the shadows, pressing my back against the cold brick wall. I force my breathing to steady, heart thundering in my ears as I peek around the corner, just enough to see them.
Footsteps approach. Slow, measured. I hold my breath, my hand inching toward the pepper spray in my bag.
They pass by the alley entrance. I catch a glimpse of them in the dim streetlight. The woman’s got red hair, pulled back tight. The man’s built like a linebacker. They pause, heads turning, searching.
Fuck me. Theyarefollowing.
I reach into my bag, my fingers closing around cool metal, then reconsider. These people may be immune to pepper spray. I reach for the switchblade I started carrying after the whole Russian clusterfuck. Call me paranoid, but paranoid is better than dead.
I step out of the shadows, the blade hidden in my sleeve. “You lost?” I call out, my voice steadier than I feel.
They turn, startled. Good. Element of surprise is on my side.
The man freezes, his gaze snapping to me, surprise flickering in his eyes before he schools his expression.
“We’re not here to cause trouble,” he says smoothly, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender. But his eyes tell a different story—calculating, assessing, waiting for me to slip up.
“Yeah? Then what the fuck do you call following me?” I snarl, taking a step forward. The woman shifts slightly, her gaze flicking to the knife, but she doesn’t back down.
She tilts her head to the side, looking back at the man. She rolls her eyes a little.
