Chapter 15
Penelope Miles
I stand by the door with my shoes dangling by their laces from my fingers and my gym bag—with my purse tucked safely inside—over my shoulder as I listen for sounds of movement through the door.
Every raw, aching part of me demands I stay hidden in my sanctuary, but my weekly alarm yanked me into the present.
I already missed Audrey’s wedding rehearsal on Friday night, so I can’t skip the self-defense class at the gym tonight.
I owe her an explanation, and although I’m a coward, I can’t hurt her even more by doing so over text.
I don’t know what I’m going to tell her. Maybe I won’t need to say anything. My reflection in the bathroom mirror looks more gaunt and pale than ever before. Even after spending almost two years sequestered away from society, I didn’t look so worn.
Finally convinced the stillness in the apartment means it’s safe to leave my room, I pull the towel out from underneath the door, fold and place it on the shelf, and slowly twist the lock.
When the mechanism slides free without a sound, I open the door with practiced ease and peek through the slot.
From this angle, the arm of the couch extends beyond the corner of the hallway.
After confirming Peter isn’t camped out on the couch, I open the door wide enough to avoid hitting my bag on the frame and inch my socked foot over the threshold.
I jerk back when my toes meet a warm, resilient object. With my heart in my throat and adrenaline scorching the inside of my numb veins, I slip back into my room and hide behind my door like a shield.
By the sheer size of the man lying on the floor, there’s only one person it could be.
Sebastian Sterling.
He didn’t leave. He followed me.
He’s sleeping on the floor outside my bedroom.
Has he been inside my apartment since I locked myself in after the jewelry store? Time doesn’t make sense anymore. Did Cathy speak such vicious words to me only two days ago?
Exhausted from her voice replaying in my head, I lean my ear toward the crack in the door.
Sebastian’s deep, even breathing assures me he’s still asleep. Anxiety and grief pulse through me.
I hurt him. He shouldn’t be here.
All I have to do is hide in my room until he leaves. No matter what promises he made me, his infatuation will fade and he’ll forget about me again. I don’t belong with him anymore than I do the family I grew up with.
After listening for a few more minutes, I open the door again and stare down at his massive frame.
With only the light from the kitchen appliances illuminating the space, his features remain in shadows.
My heart yearns to see him clearly, but I know it’s for the best. I adjust my bag on my shoulder, take a firmer grasp on my shoelaces, and tiptoe around him.
Using the wall for balance, I close my door and sidestep between his long legs and the baseboard.
When I finally clear his feet, the selfish urge to drop my stuff and throw myself down on top of him grips me.
I squeeze my eyes closed, grit my teeth, and breathe through my nose as waves of emotion barrel through me.
After endless hours of numbness, the barrage is excruciating. A single drop of warm liquid escapes my lashes, pools around my dermal teardrop piercing, and rolls down my cheek. I pull in a shaky breath and turn just enough to catch Sebastian’s frame in my periphery. The tear drips off my chin.
On silent feet, I rush to the front door, open it with a skill born of practice, and slip into the hall without making a sound.
I don’t stop to put on my shoes until the elevator doors close.
When the pain in my heart spreads outward to infect the rest of my chest, I wish the numbness would return. The elevator walls close in on me. My lungs refuse to work. An elephant sits on my chest.
I run all the way to Mr. Carter’s gym with my bag tucked under my arm and silent tears streaming down my face.
No one dares stop the tiny woman with crazy eyes and more piercings than they can count as she flashes by them. She’s not the first insane person they’ve seen on the street. They’ve never met her before. She doesn’t belong to them, so why should they care?
Acid scorches the inside of my throat, broken glass fills my lungs, and fire burns in my thighs when I yank open the door to the old two-story brick building.
The familiar sound of the little bell ringing above the door and the warring smells of bleach and old rubber welcome me as I step onto the cracked linoleum.
I freeze at the sight in front of me. The elevator no longer has an out-of-order sign on it. The metal gleams from a fresh polish, but the dents and deep scratches along the bottom edges assure me it’s the same elevator as before.
I swipe at my tears and blink as a mixture of horror and confusion buzzes through me.
For all the years I’ve attended this gym, Mr. Carter, the owner, has never allowed outsiders to help him with maintenance.
The old veteran—I searched him up online and found a brilliant record of military service—never speaks about himself, but his actions reveal everything I need to know about him.
Dread curdles my bones when the sounds of lifting weights filter through the building from the main room in the back.
I check the time and scowl. Not only am I much earlier than normal since I ran the entire way, but the brand new clock above the mail slots doubles my apprehension.
After several choppy breaths, I inch toward the front office.
“Mr. Carter?” I quietly call out, not wanting to disturb the men using the gym.
He doesn’t answer. Fear tightens my throat.
I peek into his office.
He isn’t there, but half a dozen screens cover the wall. Even though they’re off, the change is enough to solidify the worst of my thoughts.
Mr. Carter would never buy all those monitors.
I once thought about offering him a custom security system, but he proved time and again he didn’t need it.
His gym is one of the few places outside my apartment where I feel safe.
He’s the only reason I would trek through the city at night for self-defense classes.
The upgrades must mean Mr. Carter sold the gym. Sorrow spears into my heart.
I slink backward toward the front door. The elevator dings. Panic rips through me, and I spin toward the front door only to trip on my own foot. I close my eyes as the ground rushes up to greet me.
A feminine voice calls out my name half a second before I slam into the linoleum. Although my bag softens my torso’s landing, my chin and knees smack into the floor. Blinding pain streaks through my skull and spasms run up and down my overworked legs.
Breathing through the agony takes all my focus, so when thick fingers curl around my bicep, I freeze with instinctual terror.
“Matteo, no, don’t touch her. I’ll help her.
“Little rabbit, you’re not supposed to—”
“I’m pregnant, not injured. Move aside, jerk.”
When my brain finally connects the voices with names, I grit my teeth and press my palms to the floor, but my arms refuse to push me upward. The sluggish quality of my thoughts is too much like when Cathy and her gang pushed me in the hall and cracked the back of my head open on a locker.
The world darkens and shrinks. I can’t breathe.
The locker was too dark. Too small. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop the blood from trailing down my back. Couldn’t scream for fear of them returning and hurting me again.
Brook Simons—no, Brook Ricco now that she married Matteo—kneels beside me and settles her hand on my upper back.
Brook leads the self-defense class. Her wedding wasn’t long ago.
“How bad did you hit? Do you think it’s another concussion?”
She’s one of the only people on the planet I confessed a previous concussion to, since self-defense classes require physical exertion. There’s always a risk of getting injured, so telling her of it—but not how or why—was important.
I push against the floor again, but she presses down on my shoulder and speaks in the unyielding tone she uses during class.
“Just breathe for a minute. Getting up too fast will—”
Something slams against the front of the building so hard the window in the foyer flexes.
Matteo steps between us and the door without hesitation, blocking my view with his shoes and making me feel more trapped.
The bell over the door rings. I hiss as the sound stabs into the top of my head and vibrates between the hemispheres of my brain.
Audrey’s legs dart across my periphery. She skids to a stop beside Brook as her fiancé, Brennan, joins Matteo in forming a living shielding.
“What’s going on out there?” Matteo asks.
“Sounds like Mr. Carter’s meting out justice again,” Brennan says.
I struggle to keep up with their words, but Brennan’s dry tone tells me he’s more amused than worried. He must have had firsthand experience.
I wince and reach over my shoulder to push Brook’s hand off me. The floor is too cold and limiting. It’s too close to my face. I need freedom. I need out.
The bell over the door rings again. I fight to escape the hands and bodies and noise.
Startled exclamations fill the air, but my memories replace the slightly baffled voices with ones of contempt. I roll and shove but gravity is too strong. My arms are too weak.
The commotion around me worsens. I dive deeper into my nightmares.
A deep, guttural snarl breaks through my spiral. I know who made that sound. I want him.
Sebastian.
His name sears my throat. I reach for him.
Strong arms lift me off the floor and crush me against a massive chest made of granite, but unlike the cold, hard floor, the warmth emanating from him thaws the tundra in my soul, and the rapid thudding of his heart synchronizes the vibrations in my brain.
I cling to him and breathe in his delicious woodsy scent.
When he sits cross-legged on the floor and settles me in his lap still cradled to him, I wrap my arms as far around his ribs as they’ll reach and press my forehead against his chest.