My whole body locks.
The rolling door lifts partway with a mechanical rattle, and pale light spills across the concrete in a hard stripe. It makes everything sharper.
A shadow stretches long before the man attached to it steps inside.
Cole.
He moves like he belongs here.
No rush. No wasted motion. Just that same terrible calm, as if none of this is improvised, as if he’s already accounted for every possible outcome and found them all acceptable.
“Well,” he says. “There you are.”
I hate how relieved some broken part of me is to hear another human voice.
I hate him more for noticing.
He lets the door drop most of the way behind him, leaving only a strip of light at the bottom. Enough to see him. Not enough to feel less trapped.
I push myself a little straighter.
If I’m terrified, and I am, I’m not giving him all of it.
“Hi,” I manage a little shakily.
His mouth curves faintly. Not quite a smile.
“You wake up quick,” he says. “That’s good.”
“For who?”
“For both of us.”
He leans one shoulder against the wall like we’re having a casual conversation instead of whatever this is. Like I’m not zip tied on a concrete floor, and he didn’t drag me off a street in a town that had started to feel like mine.
My gaze flicks toward the gap under the door.
He notices instantly.
“That’s not going to work,” he says mildly. “You’re welcome to try, though. I enjoy watching people learn.”
A chill slides down my spine.
“You don’t need to do this,” I say.
He gives a quiet huff of amusement. “No, Aurora. I really do.”
The way he says my name makes my skin crawl.
He knows my name.
Of course he knows my name.
“You could still walk away,” I say.
That gets me a real smile. “I think we both know I’m past that.”
He pushes off the wall and paces once across the room, slow and measured, like he’s letting me look at him on purpose. Letting me understand exactly how unhurried he is.
