Delaney
I step out of the club and walk toward the curb to grab a cab. That’s the plan. Go home. Sleep. Reset.
It doesn’t happen.
Because he’s still on me.
The imprint of him is everywhere. My wrist tingles where his fingers closed around it, like the pressure never fully released. My skin is too warm, too aware, as if my body hasn’t realized the moment is over.
His mouth at my ear.
Not quite a kiss. Not quite restraint.
The threat of both.
Then his teeth biting into my flesh.
My breath catches again, a delayed reaction I can’t quite control. A slow heat coils low in my belly, tightening instead of fading. I should be past this already.
I’m not.
For a second—just a second—I let myself feel it. The way I leaned into him. The way I didn’t pull back. The way I would have let it go further.
He’s not the problem.
I am.
I can’t let this be about Samson Vexley. I have to stay focused.
You didn’t expect him.
That’s the thought that cuts through everything else, clean and sharp enough to matter.
He didn’t deny it. Not the way a man like him would.
My feet keep moving.
I don’t slow down. Don’t stop. The rhythm of my steps stays steady, as if my body is handling the mechanics while my mind works through the rest.
This didn’t start with Samson Vexley, of course. It didn’t even begin with Halstead.
It started with a file.
Not the marina. Not at first.
A contractor. A discreet contractor. The kind that installs systems no one talks about and bills through channels that don’t quite line up if you look closely enough. I’d been following them for months. Looking at the quiet jobs, the private clients, work that didn’t show up where it should.
I turn the corner without thinking. There are fewer people. Less light. I register it somewhere in the background, but it doesn’t pull me out of my thoughts.
One client surfaced more than once. That’s when I started pulling harder, which led me to the marina.
And to Halstead.
I slow slightly.
If something was already happening, then Halstead didn’t start it.
I take another step.
Then another.
The city is quieter here, but I’m not tracking it consciously. My focus has narrowed, sharpened.
If he didn’t start it, then he didn’t belong there.
And if he didn’t belong there…
Then someone else did.
And the Vexleys know who.
My chest tightens like I’ve stepped too close to something I shouldn’t be able to see.
Not just a mistake.
Not just bad timing.
Something placed.
Something—
A scream rips from my throat as something catches my wrist.
For a second, my brain doesn’t register what’s happening—just the force, the sudden loss of balance as I’m yanked sideways, my heel catching on uneven pavement.
Then—
Brick slams into my back.
The impact knocks the breath out of me in a gasp. Pain flares in my shoulder and neck, but it’s already secondary.
Because—
Hands.
One still locked around my wrist. The other coming up—
I twist, instinct snapping in before thought, and drive my free hand forward.
He catches it effortlessly.
My wrist is pinned beside the other, both of them held in one grip, lifted just enough to throw off my balance.
Air. I need air.
My chest tightens, breath shallow, fast—too fast—and for one disorienting second, nothing makes sense.
This isn’t happening.
This is—
No.
It is.
My body knows it before my brain does.
I’m in danger.
Real and immediate danger.
My heart slams again, harder this time, adrenaline hitting like a bomb dropping.
I try to pull free.
I can’t.
Not even a shift.
He’s stronger.
My stomach churns, and I go still. Not because I want to. Because I have to.
My breathing is uneven, too fast, and I force it down, force it slower, even as my pulse keeps racing.
Think.
Think.
This isn’t random. This can’t be random. There’s no fumbling. No hesitation. No voice raised in threat or demand.
He shifts closer. Just enough that I can feel the heat of him, the space collapsing in a way that makes everything else fall away.
My back presses harder into the brick. I have nowhere to go, nowhere to move, and the reality of that settles in deep and cold.
I can’t get out of this.
Not by force.
My body wants to fight again.
I don’t let it.
Not yet.
Not until I understand.
I tilt my head slightly, trying to catch his face, but it’s shadowed. Which is worse. This person knows what he’s doing.
He tightens his grip, just barely, but enough to remind me exactly how easily he could break me.
My pulse jumps again, and fear surges with it.
“It didn’t end that night. And if you don’t stop this, it will never end.”
His voice is low.
Even.
No strain. No anger.
That’s what makes it cut.
For a split second, my mind blanks. Then a colder kind of fear slips in under the first.
My breath catches, not loud, but enough that I feel it, the loss of control in something as basic as breathing.
I force it back.
Think.
This isn’t about hurting me. If it were, I’d already be on the ground.
Already bleeding.
Already—
He knows I’m close.
He knows what I’ve seen.
He loosens his grip slightly.
Then—
Nothing.
He lets go.
No shove.
No follow-through.
No escalation.
One second he’s there, and the next…
He’s gone.
I don’t move.
I can’t.
My body stays locked in place, back against the wall, wrists still half-raised like they’re expecting resistance that isn’t there anymore.
My heart is pounding, each beat echoing in my ears, drowning out everything else.
My hands are shaking.
I hate that.
I lower them slowly, forcing control back into the movement, even as my fingers tremble.
Breathe.
In.
Out.
Again.
The night rushes back in around me—distant traffic, footsteps somewhere down the block, the world continuing like nothing just happened.
Like I wasn’t just—
I press my palm briefly against the wall to ground myself, feeling the rough texture of the brick under my skin.
I could walk away. Go home. Lock the door. Let this end here.
My fear doesn’t go away. It stays. Sits under my ribs.
I push off the wall…
And I walk…straight back to the club.