“No—” The sound breaks out of me like a choked sob. “Open. Goddammit!” Panic explodes, and I yank at the doorknob, but it doesn’t even rattle. My vision blurs, tears spilling over, my hands shaking as I throw my weight into it again, my sweaty palms slipping on the doorknob. “No, please!” My fingers fumble at the lock, useless, frantic. “Fuck!” I spin…andhe’sthere.
A sharp inhale scrapes my throat, and I move until my back hits the door. “Stay away from me.”
He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But he fills the space in front of me completely, tall and solid and impossible, blotting out the light behind him. He isn’t wearing the hoodie now. Just dark clothes stretched over broad shoulders. The black buff still covers the lower half of his face, but his eyes…God.They lock onto mine, and the fear detonates.
I scream.
My body jerks as I bolt for the open space beside him. The wall scrapes my shoulder as I stumble past, my foot catching, and his hand shoots out, clamps around my arm, and rips me back.
“Get your hands off me!” My elbow connects with something solid. His grunt tells me it hurt.Good.
I wrench, fingernails raking cotton until threads catch under them. I throw my weight backward, feeling my heel slam against what must be his shin bone—the impact jarring up through my ankle. His hold loosens just enough for hope to flare, so I twist again, harder, my scream shredding my throat as I shove at his chest. “Let. Me. Go!”
He stumbles a half step, and I surge forward, desperate, but his arm snakes around my waist and drags me back against him. My back hits his chest. His breath is at my hair. The contact is so immediate, so close, panic fires up through my throat.
I slam my elbow back, but he shifts just in time, taking the blow to his shoulder instead of his face. Another scream, and I sink my nails into his arms. “Let go?—”
“I told you not to run, Sophia.”
For a split second, my mind blanks, my name dislodged from me as if it belongs to him now…and I hate it.
“Fuck you!” I buck harder, my feet slipping on the floor as I kick and manage to turn, sweeping my arm back, balling my fist, ready to plow his face. But he catches my wrist mid-swing, and in one fluid motion, he spins me around and secures my arm against my own chest, while his other arm bands around my waist like iron. The hold is precise and terrifyingly practiced.
“Stop,” he demands, his voice low, controlled.
“I will never stop fighting you, I swear to God.”
“You’ll only waste your energy.”
I jerk against his hold. “I don’t care.”
“But I do.” His words come out quiet, nearly gentle, the kind of tone you’d use to soothe someone who doesn’t understand what’s inevitable yet.
For a heartbeat, he holds me there, taut and braced, like he’s waiting for another surge. I can hear his breathing now, controlled but heavy against my ear, his attention fixed entirelyon me. Seconds trickle by, a relentless stretch of time that seems to last forever while my pulse hammers in my ears.
Finally, his grip loosens, and strong hands drop away abruptly, like touching me costs him something.
He steps back fast, putting distance between us, and I stumble forward, collapsing to my knees, every ounce of fight and energy drained.
“My boyfriend will look for me. Dean will notice I’m gone. He’ll call. He’ll?—”
“He won’t.”
Ice clots my veins. “What does that mean?”
He offers me nothing, not a word while he just stands there staring at me.
“My work?—”
“Received your resignation. Effective immediately.”
It hits me the way cold water hits. Not all at once but spreading, finding every crack, seeping into places I didn’t know were open.
His eyes hold mine, completely steady. “As far as anyone who knows you is concerned, Sophia Sinclair packed up her life and left in search of something the city couldn’t give her.”
I stare at him for a long moment. At the complete absence of apology in his expression, the flat certainty of a man who planned this the way he plans everything. Completely. Thoroughly. Without leaving anything to chance.
“No one is coming for me,” I murmur.
