Withhim?!
The creepy guy dressed all in black who broke into my apartment and has been watching me for who knows how long, planning to do God knows what?!
I swallow once, twice, and manage to press words between lips smudged with his blood. “What happens if I don’t go with you? What happens if I stay?”
I can’t make out his eyes, but I know he’s staring at me. Dark energy pours off him, heat and staggering strength shielding me as I lay beneath him. Just a few inches above his back, the red dot of a sniper sight sweeps the sad walls of my student apartment.
“You stay, you die. You want to live, you leave with me.”
2
LENA
Our escape from my apartment is a blur. I keep my head down, my body as low to the ground as I can, going exactly where I’m told. Bullets follow us through the cramped space, the final few coming terrifying close to hitting us just before we get out into the main corridor. I’m still listening for the sound of shots as we race down the emergency exit stairwell and onto the street.
Thank God I’m still wearing my coat. The night air is freezing and we’re moving quickly, hand in hand, my mystery attacker-rescuer hauling me along so fast I have to jog to keep up.
Probably a good idea, since someone is shooting at me.
Holy shit. Someone isshootingat me.
And my aunt’s house blew up.
And my last remaining family member is dead.
We come to an abrupt stop just inside an alley as the reality of what’s happened threatens to knock me unconscious. My feet feel too heavy to move. I trip, pitching forward on the crumbling asphalt, but the man holding my hand hauls me upright before I hit the ground.
My student housing isn’t in a great part of the city. Professionals with fancy jobs, families with young kids, and affluent grandparent-types have found themselves homes in the well-kept parts of town. Where streetlights work, parking laws are enforced, garbage is collected, and the sidewalks are kept crack-free.
I’d love to live in one of those places too, but with my college loans and minimum wage part-time job I can’t afford to. So, it isn’t a surprise that the mystery man has to step over a pile of week-old garbage and squint beneath a burned-out streetlamp to give me a head-to-toe scan.
“You okay?”
I stare down at where our hands are locked together, emotions playing bumper car against my skull. “What does it matter to you?”
His tone stays flat, clinical. “I need to know if you can walk on your own or if I need to carry you.”
“You aren’t carrying me.” I shouldn’t even let him hold my hand, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t need it right now. Shock is officially setting in, and I can feel my body systematically shutting down.
Like he can read my mind, the nameless man tugs me closer, the tip of one gloved finger landing under my chin. With just the slightest touch he forces me to meet his gaze.
It’s evening in winter, the sun long gone. There are no passing cars. Not even any flashing police lights illuminating the night sky, despite all the shots fired (like I said, it’s not the best neighborhood). But the urban ambient glow is enough that I can make out some of his facial features.
Angled jaw, roughened with dark stubble. High cut cheekbones that would be borderline pretty except for the crooked angle of his nose between them. I follow the line of that long-healed broken nose down to the sharp bow of his lips. Lips that shouldn’t look so entirely lickable given the circumstances.
Dark eyebrows and wickedly long eyelashes frame deep-set eyes, the color almost as murky as the inky winter sky above us. It’s the furrow between them, the visible sign of concern that lends his ridiculously rugged good looks some semblance of humanity.
Those eyes make me unreasonably curious about what he’s thinking.
Which, in turn, makes me wonder what thefuckI’m doing right now. I tug my hand free and stumble back, hoping he doesn’t notice how my legs have started to shake. “Who are you?”
“Not important.”
“It is to me.”
He shrugs, unbothered. “It shouldn’t be. Not right now.”
“Oh?” He’s so dismissive. It’s really pissing me off. Which is good. Anger I can handle. Far better than fear. “And why not? You broke into my apartment. Maybe this isn’t the first time. Maybe you’ve been stalking me. Maybe you’ve been stealing from me—” He snorts. I ignore him.
