He didn’t knock. Just pounded once, the echo rattling down the hallway. I buzzed him in, hands shaking, and unlocked the main door.
When he stepped inside, I saw the line of tension running from his neck to his fists. His eyes swept the lobby,then fixed on me, then on Sergeant. He didn’t smile. He didn’t even try.
He closed the door behind him, locked it, then took a slow, deliberate inventory of the space. His voice, when it came, was softer, meant only for me: “Show me the note.”
I handed it over, and he turned it in his fingers, reading each word with a focus that bordered on obsessive. Then he set it on the desk, smoothed it flat, and took a photo with his phone.
“I’ve seen this before,” he said, voice now all business. “Sultans use this trick. They send a warning before they try to hurt someone. It’s a test—see if you scare, see if you run. See if they can control the outcome.”
I felt my stomach clench. “So what do we do?”
He took a breath, rolled his shoulders to shake off the edge. “You’re not staying here tonight. Pack what you need for the dogs. I’ll take you somewhere safe.”
The panic hit harder this time—because the world had shifted, not just for me, but for every animal in the building, for every future day I’d thought I could live outside the blast radius of men like him.
I nodded, then reached for the leash. Sergeant licked my hand, sensing the change. I grabbed my bag, stuffed it with meds and a spare shirt, and left everything else.
Dean stood by the door, body angled just enough to keep me behind him as he scanned the parking lot again. He opened the door and let me step out first, but only by a pace. Sergeant stayed glued to my left thigh, eyes locked on the darkness.
The ride to my apartment was a blur. Dean rode behind in the Harley, keeping just enough distance to watch for a tail, eyes everywhere. I drove with both hands locked at ten and two, heart hammering, every car that passed a potential enemy.
We parked in the back, under the broken security light. Dean walked me to my door, his presence so large it felt like an extra layer of body armor.
Inside, he swept the apartment in seconds—checked the windows, the bedroom, even the tiny bathroom. He wedged a kitchen chair under the doorknob, then turned to me, every inch of him still wound tight.
Sergeant sniffed the room, then circled and collapsed on the rug, as if the worst had already passed.
I set the bag down, looked at Dean, and for the first time since he walked in, I saw how tired he was. The blue in his eyes was ringed with red, the tension in his jaw so strong I thought it might snap.
He didn’t say anything. Just sat on the edge of the couch, hands loose between his knees, waiting for me to decide if I wanted to speak.
I looked at the note, then at him. “Are you scared?” I asked, not sure if I wanted the truth.
He considered it, then nodded. “Yeah. But not for me.”
That was the thing about men like Dean. They didn’t care if the world ate them alive. But the thought of collateral damage? That kept them up at night.
I sat beside him, shoulder to shoulder, and let the silence do the rest.
I wanted to tell him I wasn’t, that I’d never be good again, that every shadow now had teeth. Instead, I nodded, then knelt to unclip Sergeant’s leash. The dog collapsed in a heap by the door, but her eyes stayed open, tracking Dean’s every move.
The apartment was mine, but now it smelled like him—leather, sweat, the afterburn of gasoline. He paced a few times, then settled on the floor next to Sergeant, his back to the wall.
“You ever been shot at?” he asked, so casual I almost laughed.
“No,” I said, dropping onto the couch. My hands shook so hard I had to jam them under a pillow. “I’m hoping to keep it that way.”
He grinned, a real one, though it didn’t last. “It’s not like the movies. You mostly hear it before you feel anything.”
I closed my eyes, tried to slow my breath. “Is this going to happen? Are we going to end up on the news?”
He shrugged, then looked away. “Not if I can help it.” His hand found the dog tags at his neck, thumb rolling the edge of the metal. “I just need a day or two to figure out who sent that note. Then we can breathe again.”
I opened my eyes, watched him settle deeper into the space, as if willing himself to merge with the cinderblock and become a fixture. His vigilance was absolute, but the fear underneath was new—a rawness I hadn’t seen, even when he’d bled all over my bathroom floor.
I got up, poured a glass of water, and drank it too fast. My mouth still tasted like rust and adrenaline.
Dean didn’t move, but his eyes followed me. “You want to talk about it?” he asked, almost a whisper.
