18. Lydia
EIGHTEEN
LYDIA
I didn’t leave the house for four days after my little one had to leave. Not to get coffee. Not to check the mail. Not to open the fucking blinds.
The moment I step outside, I can feel them watching.
Comments still flood my old posts. Death threats. DMs from blank accounts. TikTok stitches dissecting my breakup with Patrick, as if it were a crime scene.
They call me a liar. A whore. A clout-chaser.
They say I ruined him.
That I should’ve known better.
That if I was gonna act like a pornstar, I should expect men to treat me like one.
And then the cops started showing up.
The first morning, I thought it was a coincidence.
I was curled on the couch under a weighted blanket when I heard tires crunch the gravel outside. Sirens off. Just flashing lights bleeding into the windows.
I peeked through the blinds, and there they were.
Two officers. One guy in zip ties, nose clearly broken, slumped over on the curb.
No one rang my doorbell. No one asked questions.
They just picked him up and left.
Then it happened again.
And again.
Different guys. Same pattern.
Always zip-tied. Always beaten to shit. Always dumped near my fence like a warning. By the third morning, I stopped wondering if it was random.
Someone was protecting me.
And I could only guess who. No, not a guess, I know who , I just don’t want to admit it.
I don’t check my phone. Can’t. Every time I unlock it, the notifications make me sick. It feels like the whole world wants to crawl into my house and gut me in real time.
But late one night, I couldn’t take it anymore.
I crack the door open, hoodie on, hood up, fingers clenched around a kitchen knife I don’t know how to use.
The wind is heavy, thick with moisture and leftover fear. I step onto the porch, eyes scanning the yard.
And that’s when I see him.
A man in a black mask stands over someone, one of the creeps, his body moving fast, brutal, efficient.
He lands a blow to the guy’s jaw that makes a wet noise. Something cracked. Something gave.
I don’t scream.
I don’t run.
I step forward.
“Hey!” I shout, voice shaking. “Who the fuck are you?!”
He turns slowly. Stands to full height. Broad shoulders. Tactical mask pulled low. Gloves soaked.
I take another step, blade shaking in my grip.
“I said who…”
In two strides, he’s in front of me.
Before I can blink, he has me pinned to the siding. One gloved hand on my throat, not choking, but holding me still. Body pressing mine into the cold vinyl. Heat rolls off him in waves.
“Get back inside, killstreak,” he growls.
My breath catches. Deep voice. Rough and low. Familiar in a way that makes my knees weak.
“I…”
He leans in.
And then… He sniffs me.
His mask presses to my throat, breath hot, inhaling the scent of my skin like it’s something he’s been craving. His fingers twitch around my throat.
“Stay inside, little killer. I’m handling the people who think they can treat you like an item,” he whispers. “Keep everything locked.”
Then he shoves me gently, not hard, through the open door.
I stumble back, heart racing, pulse screaming in my ears.
But by the time I turn around…
He’s gone.