27. LYLA
Chapter twenty-seven
T he water was almost too hot, but I stayed submerged, keeping my chin just above the surface as I tried to wrap my mind around everything that had happened.
But no matter how warm the bath was, I couldn’t stop the shudders that hit me when I tried to close my eyes.
Every time I did, I was instantly back there—hanging above the crowd, my fingers locked around the pole, staring down at the nightmare below.
There were hands everywhere—grabbing, clawing, ripping.
That pole had been my shield, my weapon, my last fucking prayer.
And the chaos and carnage that had unfolded at the club after he arrived were the stuff of nightmares.
I couldn’t even remember what music had been playing—just the screaming inside my head. Just the way I kept thinking, Don’t fall!
And then…he had come for me. My stalker. My savior. Whoever the hell he was.
God, who was he?
He hadn’t spoken a word the entire way here. Just carried me like I was the most fragile thing on earth. His hands were both tender and protective. He’d held me with a firm grip that said I belonged to him, daring anyone to venture a glance at me.
But then, after that, he had barely touched me. And he hadn’t even looked at me sideways while I was half-naked. No smirk. No comment. No groping. He’d just…ensured I was safe and then left.
Now, whatever plans I thought I had for my life were gone—just like that. One second, I’d been working hard and getting my first big break. The next, it all was dust—and I had no idea where I was supposed to go from here.
I finally broke out of my daze and sat up. I ran clean water through my hair, then pulled myself out of the tub. The towel he’d left was luxurious. I wrapped it around myself and padded barefoot out into the bedroom.
I was taken by surprise.
My bag was there.
And my shoes.
My hoodie. My little jar of migraine pills. My hairbrush. My notebook.
All of it. Everything I’d brought with me to the theater.
I couldn’t believe it.
There was also a large suitcase I didn’t recognize. I unzipped it, and inside I found more of my belongings—everything from my makeup pouch to my phone charger. Oh, and thank God, there was my favorite tee—oversized and covered in pink peonies, a pair of sleep shorts, and some panties.
So he’d gotten not just the things I’d brought to the theater but everything I’d left behind in my apartment too, except—
No way—there were my books, stacked neatly on the dresser.
How?
How the hell had he gotten all this?
I stood there, my heart thudding. Had he been in my apartment? Had he sent someone? Had he been inside before?
The stalker label slammed back into my head like an icepick to the temple.
I should’ve been grateful, but instead, it creeped me out. Either he’d had someone retrieve this stuff…or he had done it himself. And that wasn’t the kind of care someone like me got for free.
I dropped the towel, pulled on the oversized shirt and shorts, and went back into the bathroom, clutching my makeup bag.
The moment I caught my reflection, I flinched.
Jesus—I barely recognized myself. There was black mascara streaked down my cheeks, shadow smudged beneath my eyes like bruises, and deep red lipstick smeared across my chin.
I looked like I’d crawled out of a nightmare—and I guess in some ways, I had.
I unzipped the bag and grabbed the facial cleanser I always kept in the side pocket.
Immediately, I lathered it onto my skin and scrubbed every speck of grime off.
It was gentle and soothing. I wanted it all off—every trace of what they’d done to me, of what I’d been turned into under those lights.
I kept scrubbing until my cheeks were red.
Then I grabbed the brand new toothbrush from the vanity—which had been laid out neatly like a hotel amenity—and brushed my teeth. Afterward, I pulled my damp hair into a messy bun on top of my head.
Only then did I start to feel human again. Not better. Just…less like something that had been recently packaged for sale.
I looked…normal. Well, except for the handprint-shaped bruises that were blooming on my legs and torso, not to mention the nasty claw mark on my inner thigh.
For a while, I stared at my reflection, but I couldn’t let myself hide in here forever. Whoever he was, I needed answers. Just standing here while my head spun wasn’t helping. I deserved to know who he was. How could so much have happened between us, and I still didn’t know the man’s name?
The moment I opened the bedroom door, the aroma of apples and cinnamon hit me. My stomach growled, and my mouth watered. This was the last thing I had been expecting. Did he know I was starving, that I hadn’t eaten all day, or was it just something he thought would be comforting for me?
I turned the corner and stepped into a kitchen that looked like something in a five-star restaurant. Long marble counters. Clean lines. A wall of wine. And a brutal killer standing at the stove, casually stirring a yummy-smelling concoction.
He hadn’t heard me enter.
I should’ve quietly sneaked out of the apartment and gone down the stairwell, but instead, I stood there silently, watching him.
He wore different clothes now—a casual black T-shirt and joggers—very different from his usual bespoke suits or the tactical gear he had just been wearing.
His jet-black hair was damp and messy. And God, the tattoos—ink spanning from his hands to wherever my mind dared wander—were like an epic story etched in flesh.
The man was a canvas, his skin covered with monsters, warriors, and battle scenes.
The art on his body—from the clock ticking on his knuckles to the demons that crawled along his arms—spoke of a life far darker than I wanted to know.
For a few breaths, I stood staring, mesmerized. His movements were calm and unbothered, as if we hadn’t just escaped a war zone of death and carnage, like he hadn’t just destroyed a criminal enterprise and carried a half-naked girl through gunfire and smoke.
He turned from the stove, frying pan in hand, and caught sight of me standing there. His gaze dropped unhurriedly, taking in the flush still clinging to my cheeks, the oversized shirt hanging off my frame, and my bare feet, which were shifting like I didn’t know what to do with them.
His eyes didn’t leer. They consumed.
I braced a hand on the doorframe.
He gestured toward the island. “Sit.”
His voice was rough, and I moved on instinct, sinking onto the barstool and resting my arms on the cool marble countertop.
Without a word, he began spooning the spiced apple and cinnamon concoction into two bowls. He finished them off with a generous dollop of something creamy and white.
A moment later, he set a bowl and spoon in front of me.
“Spiced apples sautéed in butter, cinnamon, and nutmeg. Topped with mascarpone,” he said. “I’m guessing you haven’t eaten all day. This’ll help settle your stomach—and your nerves. You need a little sugar after that adrenaline hit.”
The aroma was divine.
I picked up the spoon.
The first bite melted on my tongue.
The apples were tender, just shy of caramelized. The spices provided a comforting warmth without being overpowering, and the mascarpone—cool, velvety, and sweet—wrapped around the fruit like silk. I let the spoon linger inside my mouth as the cream ran over my tongue. Closing my eyes, I moaned.
It wasn’t loud—just a soft, involuntary sound. My whole body sighed with it.
I was starving in a bone-deep, hollowed-out kind of way. Hungry for food, for comfort, for someone to care for me.
This was exactly what I hadn’t known I needed.
He pulled a couple of glasses from the cabinet and poured us each some sweet moscato wine. I’d be careful and only drink a few sips. I needed my head clear.
Still, the warmth from the food—combined with the soft hum of music playing in the background and the flickering city lights outside the windows—made me feel like I was already intoxicated.
I glanced around, taking it all in. The open-concept living room. The floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The patio beyond. The glow of the city in every direction.
And the artwork. Oh God—the artwork was stunning.
Covering the walls of the living room were massive, commanding canvases that drew my eye.
Towering black-and-white landscapes by Ansel Adams, stark and majestic, captured nature at its most powerful.
Alongside them were haunting abstract pieces by a photographer I didn’t know—a mix of industrial and natural patterns found from high above the earth.
The contrast in styles was jarring, but it worked.
Like the man himself—a mystery but impossible to ignore.
This wasn’t some mob hideout. This place was…sophisticated, cultured, and beautiful.
Who the hell are you, Mr. Stalker?
Dipping my spoon into the bowl again, I dragged my tongue along the handle, catching a smear of mascarpone that had been left behind. Then I licked it all the way up to the tip before slipping it into my mouth, savoring every decadent drop.
I glanced up to find he was staring at me.
His palms were braced on the counter in front of me, the muscles in his arms tense, his fingers digging into the marble. His jaw was set like stone.
And his eyes—the look in them was ravenous, his pupils blown wide.
Like he wanted to devour me whole.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. The spoon remained suspended between my fingers.
Then, I made a choice.
Coyly, I brought the next bite to my lips and licked the edge of the spoon—locking my eyes onto his. A bead of cream slipped to the corner of my mouth.
I caught it with the tip of my tongue and dragged it inside my lips, swallowing deeply.
He made a sound—a low growl.
Still, he didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He didn’t touch a single bite of his own food but merely stood there, his restraint cracking at the seams.
The tension between us stretched so tight, it hurt to breathe.