My head snaps up, my eyes wide with a terror so absolute it turns my blood to ice.
The fight ended early.
He’s back.
Thirty Nine
Aria
Forasingle,frozensecond, I am paralyzed. My mind is a white-hot scream of pure static. The marriage certificate is still in my hand, the voice recorder on the floor beside me. The ghosts of the past and the nightmare of the present have converged in this one, impossible moment.
Then instinct, raw and primal, takes over.
My hands move with a speed I don't know I possess. I snatch the recorder off the floor, shoving it deep into the pocket ofmy jeans. I fold the certificate, cramming it in alongside the recorder. The box. I can’t leave the box. I scoop the letters, the locket and the photos back inside, my movements clumsy and frantic. I don’t have time to put it back on the shelf. There’s nowhere to hide it.
My eyes dart around the room, searching for an escape. The front door is a death trap. He is on the other side of it. The windows are a forty-story drop.
The bedroom.
I scramble on all fours, clutching the wooden box to my chest. I crawl into the darkness of his bedroom, my heart threatening to beat its way out of my chest. Under the bed? No, too obvious. The closet.
I slide open the heavy wooden door of his walk-in closet and slip inside, pulling it shut until only a sliver of light remains. I sink to the floor in the back behind a row of his scentless black shirts, and finally, finally draw a ragged, silent breath. The air smells of cedar and him. It’s suffocating.
The sound of a keycard sliding into the lock is followed by a heavy thud as the loft door swings open and slams shut. Heavy, angry footsteps echo on the concrete floor. He’s home.
I press my eye to the crack in the door, my world shrinking to a narrow, terrifying slit of vision. I see him stalk into the main room. He’s still in his fighting clothes, his knuckles raw and bleeding, and a fresh cut glistens on his cheekbone. He moves like a caged animal, radiating a violent, restless energy. He paces the length of the room once, then twice, running a bloody hand through his hair.
Cassian stops.
He goes utterly still, his head cocked, like a wolf tasting the air. I see his nostrils flare. He knows. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he knows. The air is different. My scent. My fear.I am a foreign body in his sterile world, and he can sense the intrusion.
"Aria?"
His voice is low, a dangerous rumble that vibrates through the floor. It’s not a question. It’s a summons. He knows I’m here.
My blood turns to ice. I hold my breath, praying the frantic hammering of my heart isn't audible. Don't breathe. Don't move. Don't exist.
I watch as he begins to hunt. He doesn’t shout my name again. The search is silent, which is infinitely more terrifying. He moves with a predator’s economy, checking the shadows of the main room, the small alcove of the kitchen. His movements are tight, controlled, but underscored with a rage that is barely contained. He is a bomb about to detonate.
Then, he turns towards the bedroom.
He fills the doorway, a hulking silhouette against the city lights. He takes one step into the room, then another. He is ten feet away. I can hear his breathing now, harsh and uneven. My own lungs are burning.
He scans the room. The bed. The windows. His eyes linger for a moment on the closet door.
He knows.
He takes a step towards me. My entire world narrows to the space between my eye and the crack in the door. This is it. He’s going to open it and he’s going to find me, and the last thing I’ll ever see is the monster I’ve unleashed.
Suddenly a sharp, electronic ring cuts through the tension. His phone.
He stops, his body tensing. He pulls the phone from his pocket, his eyes never leaving the closet door. He glances at the screen, and a sneer of pure contempt twists his lips. He answers, his voice a low snarl.
"What?"
There’s a pause. I can’t hear the other side, but I see the muscles in his jaw clench.
"I don't give a damn about the quarterly reports, Dimitri," he spits, the name dripping with venom. "Handle it."
