Security checkpoint.
The memory hits me all at once. Setting the bag down. Pulling things out too fast. ThinkingI’ll fix this laterbecause later always felt safer than now.
I sink back into the chair, chest tight, vision swimming, fingers curling against the edge of the desk to keep myself grounded.
This is how it happens, my mind supplies unhelpfully.Not in dramatic moments. In small, stupid oversights that open the door just enough for someone else to step through.
A knock sounds at the door. I jolt so hard, my chair scrapes loudly against the floor. My heart slams into my ribs, sharp andpainful. For half a second, I can’t breathe at all. My mind races through possibilities too fast to choose one.
Room service.
Security.
Hotel staff.
Orhim.
My gaze snaps to the door like it might give something away if I stare hard enough. I don’t move. I don’t answer. I stand there, frozen, every muscle pulled tight, listening for another sound.
The knock comes again.
I take one shaky step backward, pulse roaring in my ears, already calculating exits that don’t exist, already bracing for a confrontation I told myself I’d escaped.
My hand lifts toward the door… and stops. Whoever is on the other side of it has power.
The question is whether they’re about to use it.
The knock comes a third time. Softer this time, like whoever is on the other side has realized I’m not answering on purpose.
My pulse is loud enough to drown out reason. I swallow against the dryness in my throat and force my feet to move. Not toward the door yet. Just enough that I’m not trapped between panic and stillness.
I grab the only thing within reach that could make me feel less helpless—a heavy glass tumbler from the minibar tray. I hold it low at my side like it’s not ridiculous.
Because it is ridiculous.
Because if it’s Marco on the other side of that door, a glass won’t save me.
The peephole is too high for my height unless I stand on my toes. I do it, anyway, careful not to make noise, my forehead almost touching the door as I angle my eye to the small fisheye lens.
The hallway is empty.
My stomach drops. That’s worse, somehow. Empty hallway means someone stepped out of view. Means someone is waiting. Means…
A quiet voice carries through the door, muffled but unmistakably calm. “It’s me.”
My blood turns cold.
Not because it’s Marco.
Because it’shim. The stranger from the plane. The man with scarred knuckles and quiet eyes. The man who saidYou’re safe nowlike it was something he could deliver with his hands.
I lower off my toes slowly, glass still clenched tight enough that my fingers ache. I blow out a breath that sounds like it hurts and inch the deadbolt open, keeping the chain on. The door cracks just wide enough for me to see him through the gap.
He stands a step back, exactly where he can’t be accused of crowding me. Same suit. Jacket off now. White shirt open at the throat like he’s already started loosening himself out of the don-shaped armor.
He holds something in his hand.
A wallet.
