“Get out. Get out or I’ll call the cops!”
I stare at him, adrenaline burning through my exhaustion.
He doesn’t. He stays there, too still and composed for someone cornering a stranger in her apartment. I make another move for the hallway, but he steps closer, close enough that I can smell his clean, expensive cologne.
“I said?—”
He cuts me off. “You scream, and the people who’ll come running aren’t the ones you want to see.”
“What?”
His gaze holds mine, steady and unblinking. “You live alone. Your neighbors won’t open their doors for a woman screaming. Not in this building. You know that, don’t you?”
The calm in his tone terrifies me more than a threat ever could. My breath catches. I grab for my phone on the table, but before I can touch it, he’s there. His hand comes down over mine, firm, hot, and immovable.
“Don’t,” he says again, voice low.
“Who are you?” I choke out, my pulse hammering against my throat.
“Someone who’s not here to hurt you.”
“That’s exactly what someonehere to hurt mewould say?—”
I don’t get to finish. In one smooth movement, he takes the phone from my grasp and catches my wrist, turning me before I can react. I stumble backward, hit his chest, and before I can twist free, his arm wraps around my waist. The next second, my world flips. My back is against the floor, the air knocked out of me.
He’s above me, all controlled weight and quiet strength, braced on his forearms. The space between us hums. Every exhale he gives finds the corner of my mouth, warm, rhythmic, deliberate. My body forgets what to do. My heartbeat isn’t just fear anymore. It’s faster, heavier, alive. His scent catches at the back of my throat, leather and something that makes the air taste electric.
This can’t be real. I can’t be assaulted in my own apartment. I should be safe here.
“Get off me,” I whisper, though the sound isn’t convincing.
He doesn’t move. His eyes stay locked on mine, steady, assessing, a gray that feels like touch. My chest rises against his with every breath, my skin tightening where our bodies almost meet.
“I told you,” he says, voice lower now, a rough scrape that slides down my spine. “I’m not here to hurt you.”
The line between threat and promise blurs, and I hate that I can feel it everywhere. My breath comes shallow, chest tight against his. “Then what the hell do you callthis?”
“Necessary.” His lips curl faintly. “You were going to do something stupid.”
“I should scream.”
“Go ahead.” His gaze drags down to my mouth, slow and deliberate. “No one will come.”
The heat is unbearable; his body solid above mine, the low rhythm of his breathing syncing with mine until I can’t tell which is which. He looks down at me for a long moment, his hand sliding from my wrist to the floor beside my head, knuckles grazing my hair.
“I’m here,” he says quietly, “because of your brother.”
The words break through the static in my brain. “What?”
“I need to talk to you about Lucas.”
For a heartbeat, the world stops moving. My mind stumbles between confusion and dread. “What do you mean? Do you—do you know him?”
“Better than you think.”
The room feels smaller. “Where is he?”
“Alive,” he says simply. “For now.”
