My body moves before my mind can raise another objection. I slide off the sofa, my bare feet silent on the cold concrete. The loft, which has been my entire world for a week suddenly feels immense, an open field I have to cross under the eye of a sniper. Every shadow seems to writhe. The groan of the building’s pipes is the sound of his returning footsteps. I keep my eyes locked on the door, on that beautiful, terrifying, unlatched deadbolt.
I reach it. My hand, slick with a cold sweat, trembles as I reach for the handle. It feels like ice. This is the membrane between my prison and the world. I press my ear against the cold steel, listening. Nothing.
I take a breath that feels like my first and my last. I turn the handle.
The latch clicks back. The sound is a gunshot in the silence.
I pull the door open, just a crack. A sliver of a dimly lit, industrial hallway appears. The air smells different—of dust and damp concrete. It’s the smell of freedom. It’s real.
I can run. Right now. Barefoot, in these clothes, with nothing. I can run, scream, and never look back.
But the thought stops me cold.
Where would I go? To the police? What would I tell them?That Cassian Kostas is the man who held me captive? They would see the fading bruises on my body, and he would probably tell them I was a troubled, grieving girl he was trying to help. It would be my word against his.
And what about Jade? What about Leo?If I run now, the why of it all runs with me, unanswered. I will never know the full truth of what happened that night. I won’t just be a victim; I’ll be a loose end, and I know what men like Cassian do to loose ends. I wouldn’t be free. I’d just be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life.
No. Running isn’t enough.
A new clarity, cold and diamond-hard, cuts through the fear. The opportunity isn’t just to escape my cage. It’s to find the key to his, but I can't do that from inside. I need to get out. I need a place to think, to plan. A place he wouldn't expect.
I slip out of the loft, pulling the heavy door shut behind me with a soft click. I don’t try to lock it. That would be a waste of precious seconds. The hallway is empty, silent. The industrial building feels like a tomb. I find the stairwell, my bare feet slapping softly on the concrete steps as I descend floor after floor. The adrenaline is a buzzing current through my veins, making every sense hyper-alert.
I emerge onto the street, blinking in the sudden glare of the city lights. It’s late, but the streets are still alive with the distant hum of traffic, the occasional blare of a horn. I’m in the industrial district, a maze of warehouses and old factories. It’s unfamiliar territory, but I know one thing: my old apartment building isn't far. It's a beacon. A temporary sanctuary.
I pull my arms around myself, shivering in the cool night air. I have no shoes, no coat, no phone, no money. Just the clothes on my back and the terrifying knowledge in my head. I start to run. Not a frantic, panicked sprint but a steady, determinedpace. I weave through the empty streets, keeping to the shadows, my eyes darting, searching. Every car that passes is a potential threat. Every distant siren sends a fresh spike of fear through me.
It takes what feels like an eternity, but finally, I see it. The familiar, slightly dilapidated facade of my old apartment building. A wave of bittersweet relief washes over me. It’s still here. It’s still home, in a way.
I slip through the unlocked front door, my heart pounding. The familiar smell of stale cooking and cheap air freshener is almost comforting. I take the stairs two at a time to the top floor. My old apartment is on the third, but I’m not going there. Not yet. It’s too risky. He knows where I live.
I push open the heavy door to the roof. The night air hits me, sharp and clean. The city spreads out before me, a glittering, indifferent tapestry of lights. This is my place. My secret. Cassian would never think to look for me here. He doesn't know about the hours I spent up here, seeking solace, watching the world below.
The roof is cold, the gravel digging into my bare feet, but I barely notice. I walk to the edge, looking down at the street. I am free. For now.
But I am not safe. Not really.
I am a ghost in the city, with nothing but a name and a burning need for answers. And the man who holds those answers is out there somewhere, probably looking for me.
The game has changed.
Thirty Two
Cassian
Thecoldnightairis a shock against my burning skin. I stumble out of the alley, leaving the roar of the crowd and the stench of blood behind. My body screams in protest with every step. My right hand is a throbbing, useless club, the pain a constant, dull roar beneath the surface. My face feels swollen, a mask of bruised flesh. My left eye is nearly swollen shut, the world a blurry, distorted mess.
But the physical agony is a whisper compared to the scream in my head.
It did nothing.
I walked into that ring, I let Santos beat me, I broke my own hand, and the ghost is still there. Leo’s name, her voice, the image of her face when I realized my mistake—it all plays on a loop. The punishment was supposed to cleanse me, to burn away the shame. Instead it just added more layers of pain, more proof of my failure. I can’t even break myself right.
I lean against the Challenger, chest heaving, trying to catch my breath. The metallic tang of blood is strong in my mouth. I push myself off the car, my legs unsteady, and force myself inside. The leather seats feel like sandpaper against my raw skin. I start the engine, the familiar rumble a hollow comfort.
The drive back to the loft is a blur. My mind is a storm of self-recrimination. I replay the scene with Aria, dissecting every word, every flinch, every nuanced expression. Her quiet, trembling voice saying his name. The way she looked at me, not with fear, but with something else. Something that sawthroughme.
I shouldn't have left, I shouldn't have lost control. My father's voice, cold and precise, echoes in my head:Never show weakness. Never let them see you bleed.And I bled. Profusely. In front of her.
