For one disoriented second, my mind short-circuits. Because he’s beautiful.Dangerouslyso. The kind of beauty that doesn’t belong in apartments like mine. Then the fear hits.
“What the hell—” I stumble backward, grab my coffee mug from the table, and throw it as hard as I can.
He moves before it leaves my hand. Just steps sideways, effortless, like he knew what I’d do before I did it. The mug explodes against the wall, porcelain shattering across the floor.
He doesn’t flinch, or even look at the wreckage. His gaze stays on me.
Every cell in my body screams to run. I clutch the blanket from the back of the couch and yank it around my almost naked self, my hands shaking. “Get out!” My voice cracks. “Get out or I’ll?—”
He raises a brow, calm as stone. “You’ll what?”
His voice is low, too smooth and threaded with something dark—a faint accent there, hard to place, like it’s been blended over time. It does things to my nerves I don’t want to admit.
“Who are you?” I manage.
He doesn’t answer. Just studies me like I’m a puzzle he’s deciding whether to solve.
The silence stretches too long. I can hear the faint hum of the refrigerator, the candle sputtering. My mind races through every possible explanation—wrong apartment, hallucination, dream—but none fit the man standing there.
I take a step toward the door, but he moves first, just enough to block my path, the light catching on the faint line of a scar near his throat.
“Don’t,” he says softly.
“Don’t what?”
“Run.”
My hand tightens around the blanket until my knuckles ache. “You broke into my home. What do you expect me to do? Offer you coffee?”
His eyes flicker with something that almost looks like amusement. “You already threw the mug.”
“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.
