34. Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sunny
Warmth. That's the first thing I register as consciousness slowly returns. I feel safe, comfortable, and completely at peace. The sensations are so foreign they take a moment to identify. There's a gentle weight on my shoulder, and I'm curled up against something solid and warm. I snuggle into the blanket a little deeper.
In the space of a breath, reality crashes in.
My eyes snap open and I bolt upright, my heart thundering against my ribs as I realize I'm not alone. I scramble across the couch, dragging the blanket with me trying to remember why I'm not in my room, who's here with me. The room spins as panic claws its way up my throat. My chest constricts painfully, and I can feel tremors starting in my hands. I squeeze my eyes shut tight against all of it.
"No, no, no…" the words are frantic, pleading as they pour out of my mouth.
"Sunny." A voice I recognize cuts through the static roaring in my ears. "Look at me."
I can't. I'm frozen. Stuck in place. My breath comes in sharp, hitching gasps that make my lungs hurt, make me dizzy. I think I'm going to be sick.
"Sunny." The voice is firmer now, but still gentle. It's Z. Zane is here with me. "Focus on my voice Sunny. Match my breathing."
He takes my hand and gently places it against his chest, letting me feel the steady rise and fall of each measured breath he takes. "In through your nose, out through your mouth. With me."
I force my eyes open, force myself to look at him, anchoring myself in the calm blue of his eyes. He breathes deeply, deliberately, and I struggle to match his rhythm.
"That's it," he encourages. "You're safe. Nothing bad is happening. Just breathe with me."
Gradually, the vice grip around my chest loosens. The room stops spinning, and my breathing evens out. Z keeps holding my gaze, his hand pressing mine to his chest, until the worst is over.
"I'm sorry," I whisper. Shame and embarrassment replace the frantic need to get away. I pull my hand away. "I've never... no one's ever..." I wiggle my toes in between the cushions of the couch. "You must think I'm crazy."
"I don't think you're crazy Sunny. And you don't have to apologize." He shifts subtly, leaning back to give me more space. "There's nothing to be ashamed of."
"It's not that." I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hide how badly my hands are still shaking. I remember coming out here and sitting next to Zane. I remember playing the stupid game on his phone, and then there's nothing. "I shouldn't have come out here last night. I don't know what I was thinking."
"You were exhausted." His voice is even, with no judgment or pity. "I thought about waking you up, but you looked so peaceful. I thought you could use a few hours of good sleep."
I risk glancing at him, expecting to see discomfort or awkwardness, but his expression is open, understanding. I relax a tiny bit.
"It's still embarrassing," I mutter.
"We all have ghosts, Sunny." His tone is quiet.
He stands, stretching. "I'll make us some coffee."
I watch as he moves around my small kitchen with familiar ease, pulling out mugs and starting the coffee maker. It should bother me how comfortable he is here, how naturally he's slipped into my space. But, it doesn't. It feels better than it probably should.
"You should eat something too," he says, dropping bread into the toaster. "Even if it's just a few bites."
"I'm not hungry."
He gives me a look I've come to recognize—the one that says he's not buying my bullshit. "Humor me."
The coffee maker gurgles to completion, and he fixes our cups—mine with way too much cream and sugar, just how I like it. He sets both mugs on the coffee table along with a plate of toast.
The comfortable silence stretches between us as we sip our coffee, but there's something I need to ask.
"How did you know that doing that thing you did would work?" I trace the rim of my mug with my finger. "That breathing thing."
Z's expression shifts, something raw and painful flickering across his face before he masks it. "My sister. She would get panic attacks sometimes. They were horrible for her."
The past tense hangs heavy in the air. I don't push, but I can't help noticing how his hands tighten around his mug, the way his jaw clenches slightly.
"She’s gone now, but maybe someday I'll tell you about her," he says with a sadness I can feel.
I nod, understanding both the offer and its limits. We sit in comfortable silence, the morning light growing stronger through my windows. It strikes me how comfortable this feels—sharing space with someone, not having to fill every moment with words. I've never had this before.
Z's phone buzzes. His expression darkens as he reads the message.
"Shit," he mutters, then looks at me. "Someone just triggered the warehouse's security."
I can see him wrestling with the decision to leave.
"Go," I tell him. "I'll be fine. The doors are locked."
"Ty's already outside, right at the bottom of the stairs. Wolf sent him over this morning," he says finally. "He'll keep watch. I'll be back in two hours, tops."
The thought of him leaving me alone makes my stomach clench, but I try not to let it show.
"When I get back, will you please consider coming to the safehouse with me?" His eyes meet mine, serious and concerned. "At least until I can get some answers about who was watching you last night. You'd have your own space, complete privacy. And all the security you need."
"Z..." I start to protest.
"I know you don't want to run," he cuts in. "But this isn't running. It's being smart."
Part of me wants to say yes, if only to ease the worry I can see in his expression. But the larger part of me remembers what happened the last time I let someone convince me they'd keep me safe.
"I can't," I say softly. "I need to be here. In my own place."
He nods like he didn't really expect any other answer.
"Alright," Z says finally, though he doesn't look happy about it. "But I'm coming back as soon as I'm done. And until then..." He fixes me with an intense look. "Keep your doors locked. All of them. And keep your phone on you at all times—even if you're just going to the bathroom."
"Yes, sir," I say, trying to lighten the mood, but his expression remains serious.
"I mean it, Sunny. This is serious."
"I know." I wrap my arms around myself. "I promise I'll be careful."
He stands reluctantly, gathering his jacket. At the door, he waits while I slide the locks into place, then I hear him testing the handle from the outside—once, twice. His footsteps pause in the hallway, like he's second-guessing leaving, before finally fading away.
I drag myself back to the couch, exhausted despite having slept more hours at a time than I'm used to. The blanket Z used is still there, and I pull it around myself as I lay down. The fabric smells like him—warm spice and leather. It's comforting. I know I should probably get up, maybe try to be productive, do some laundry or clean, but the events of last night and this morning have left me drained.
I burrow deeper into the blanket, creating a cozy cocoon, and let my eyes drift closed. Just five minutes, I tell myself. But as I start to drift off, I can't help the small smile that curves my lips.
When I wake, something feels wrong. The apartment is too quiet. My eyes fall on my coffee table and my blood turns to ice.
Sitting there, perfectly centered, is my set of spare keys. The ones I keep hidden in my dresser drawer.
I lift my head off the couch and look around slowly, trying to be quiet. Nothing else looks disturbed or out of place.
I slide my hand down, grabbing the phone out of my pocket. With trembling fingers, I dial. Z answers on the first ring.
"Sunny. You okay?"
I struggle to keep my voice a low whisper. "Someone's been here. Inside."
His tone shifts instantly. "Are you alone in the room right now?"
"I... I think so. I don't know."
"Don't move. Stay exactly where you are." In the space of a breath his voice becomes controlled, precise. "Tell me what you see without getting up."
"I'm lying on the couch. My... my spare keys are on the table." My breath starts coming in ragged gasps. "Z, those keys were hidden in my—"
"Focus, Sunny. I need you to tell me what you can hear?"
I strain to listen. "Nothing. It's quiet."
A beat of silence. "Is your phone on silent?"
"No."
"Put it on silent now. But don't hang up." I hear him barking orders to someone in the background.
"Good. Now, very slowly, I want you to slide to the floor between the couch and the coffee table. Stay low. Tell me when you're there."
I do as he says. My heart is hammering so hard I worry that if someone is here with me they can hear it.
"I'm down."
"Good. Now listen carefully. I want you to move to the door as quiet as possible. Stay against the wall if you can and keep down. If you hear anything, anything at all, you freeze. Understand?"
"Yes."
"When you reach the door, don't open it. Listen first. Three seconds minimum. You copy?"
"Copy." The military precision of his instructions helps to keep the panic at bay.
"I'm four minutes out. Ty's not responding but I've got Wolf coming. You ready?"
"Ready."
"Move. Now."
I slither along the floor, keeping my head down, fighting the urge to stand up and run.
Once I'm at the door, I press my ear against it. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three—
A floorboard creaks somewhere in the hallway outside.
"Z," I breathe into the phone. "Someone's out there."
"Sunny, run. Get into the bathroom. Now. Lock the door." His voice is tight. "I'm almost there."
I turn towards the bathroom, but freeze at a sound that makes my blood run cold—the scratch of a key in the lock.
There's a loud click and the door starts to open.
"Sunny, move. NOW." Z's voice is steel in my ear.
I bolt for the bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind me.
"Talk to me," Z demands. "Are you secure?"
"Yes." My voice is barely a whisper. "The door's locked."
"Good. Get in the tub. Stay low. Keep your head down."
I climb into the bathtub, pressing myself as flat as possible against the cold porcelain. Heavy footsteps move through my apartment—slow, methodical. Searching.
The bathroom doorknob rattles.
I clamp my hand over my mouth to stifle a whimper.
"Hurry Zane," I breathe into the phone. "Please."
"Fuck!" I hear him slam his hand into the steering wheel. "I'm almost there Sunny. Stay down. Whatever you hear, whatever happens don't move until you hear my voice. My actual voice, not through the phone. Understand?"
"Yes."
The doorknob rattles again, harder this time. I scream as something heavy slams into the door. It gives, but holds.
Another slam.
The wood splinters.
Somewhere in the apartment, I hear the front door crash open.
"SUNNY!" Z's voice booms through the apartment.
The pounding on the bathroom door stops. The heavy footsteps retreat. Glass shatters—from my bedroom, I think.
"Clear!" An unfamiliar voice shouts.
"Clear!" Another voice.
"Bathroom's secure," Z calls out. "Sunny? It's me. I'm coming in."
Z slams his shoulder into the door, forcing it. When it opens, Z fills the frame, gun drawn but pointed down. His eyes are cold, deadly. Behind him, I glimpse other men moving through my apartment, checking corners, securing rooms.
"Are you hurt?"
I shake my head, not trusting my voice.
Z holsters his weapon and reaches for me. I fall out of the tub into his arms.
"I've got you," he murmurs against my hair. "You're safe."
But we both know that's a lie. Someone got past Ty. Got into my apartment.
"Wolf found Ty," one of the men reports from the doorway. "He's unconscious but alive. Looks like he was drugged."
Z's arms tighten around me. "You're coming to the safehouse." he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
This time, I don't protest.