25. Justin
JUSTIN
Ishouldn’t still be here.
That thought keeps circling as I sit across the street from her building, engine idling low, headlights off. I told myself I’d leave once I saw her get home. Told myself this was caution, not obsession. A professional courtesy I hadn’t quite been able to let go of.
Her apartment is mostly dark.
One low lamp burns in the front room, its weak glow bleeding through thin curtains. Everything else is shadow. My jaw tightens. The sight doesn’t reassure me—it does the opposite.
Something is wrong.
I feel it before I see it. The shift in the air. The prickle along the back of my neck that never lies. Instinct doesn’t shout or demand attention. It whispers. And it’s whispering now.
There’s movement. A silhouette crosses the room.
A man. He moves too smoothly, too confidently—like he knows the layout, like he’s been here before.
The streetlight catches his profile for half a second, just long enough for a sick weight to settle low in my gut.
The angle is wrong. His face looks… off. Distorted. Unnatural.
Masked?
My skin tightens, goosebumps breaking out along my arms.
“No,” I mutter.
He disappears deeper into the apartment. Toward the back, where her room is.
My phone is already in my hand. I’m dialing as I open the car door.
“Miguel,” I say the second he answers. “I need you now. Rowan’s building. Possible intruder. Get here fast.”
“I’m two minutes out,” he replies.
“I’m going in,” I say, even as he protests and tells me to wait.
I’m out of the car and across the street in seconds, heart hammering hard enough to bruise my ribs. My shoulder slams through the front door of the building. In this moment, I’m both cursing it and thanking God it never worked properly.
I take the stairs two at a time, boots thudding, breath sharp and measured. Every step tightens the coil in my chest.
Too slow. Not fast enough.
I hit the second floor and see it immediately—her door, standing slightly ajar.
That’s all I register before I hear her.
A sound tears through the apartment—raw, strangled, desperate. It isn’t a scream. It’s worse. It’s the sound someone makes when they’re running out of air.
My vision narrows as I surge forward, tearing through the apartment toward the back room. I don’t slow. I don’t hesitate. I slam into the bedroom door hard enough that it crashes into the wall.
And there he is.
Straddling her.
His hands are locked around her throat, fingers digging in deep.
Rowan is awake—fully, horrifyingly aware.
Her eyes are wide, blown black with terror.
Red blotches are already blooming beneath his grip, staining her skin.
She’s clawing at his hands, nails scraping uselessly against whatever he’s wearing, fighting for leverage that isn’t there.
Her legs are thrashing, heels kicking against the mattress, trying desperately to buck him off. She’s losing. And something inside me snaps.
Without thought, I launch myself at him with everything I have. My shoulder slams into his side and the impact rips the air from his lungs. We hit the floor hard, bodies colliding, furniture cracking under the force. He grunts, surprised and off-balance, and that moment is the only mercy he gets.
I’m on him before he can recover.
My fists fly, fueled by something feral and uncontrollable. Rage burns white-hot, blinding. I feel bone under my knuckles. I feel flesh give. Hear the wet sound of impact as I drive my fist into his face again and again.
I don’t stop to assess the damage. I don’t care. Every blow is a message. Every hit is punishment for the hands that were on her throat, for the terror in her eyes, for the sound she made when she couldn’t breathe.
He tries to cover up. Tries to roll away. I drag him back and keep going.
Again. And again. And again.
I beat him like I mean to end him.
Someone yanks me back hard.
“Justin!” Miguel shouts. “That’s enough!”
I twist, try to break free, still reaching for him, still ready to finish what I started. Another set of arms locks around me, hauling me backward with brute force while Miguel drops his weight onto the attacker, pinning him to the floor.
The man barely moves.
He’s a wreck—blood pouring down his face, pooling on the floor, his breathing wet and uneven. The mask is half torn away now, hanging crooked, slick with red.
But it’s still there.
Still covering what’s left of his face.
And the sight of it makes my gut lurch all over again.
I freeze when I hear the sound.
A whimper. Thin. Broken.
Rowan.
Everything else drops away.
I tear free from my man’s grip and drop to my knees beside her, the room tilting as I move.
She’s curled in on herself, gasping for air like her lungs don’t quite remember how to work.
Her hands tremble violently at her throat, fingers pressing into skin already darkening with red marks.
She’s shaking so hard it looks like one wrong touch might shatter her completely.
“Rowan,” I say, my voice rough, torn up, soaked in violence. “Hey. Hey. Look at me.”
It takes a second. Maybe two. Then her eyes lift and find mine. Something inside her breaks.
She makes a small, fractured sound and surges forward, clutching my shirt with desperate strength, fingers fisting into the fabric like I’m the only thing holding her upright. Like if she lets go, she’ll fall apart entirely.
“I’ve got you,” I say immediately, wrapping my arms around her. “You’re safe. I’ve got you, Row.”
I hold her carefully but firmly, giving her something solid, something real to hold onto. My hands are slick with blood, but I don’t let go. I don’t shift. I let her breathe against me, let the shaking tear through her until it burns itself out.
“I’m here,” I murmur into her hair. “I swear to you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Miguel is speaking somewhere behind me, voice low and controlled, already calling it in, already handling the aftermath. I don’t listen.
Rowan is alive. That’s the only thing that matters.
I gather her into my coat and lift her, careful not to jostle her, not to break the fragile calm settling over her now. She doesn’t protest. She clings to me, her head tucked against my chest, her breathing uneven but slowly evening out.
I take her to the only place I trust her to be safe.
The church.
I lay her down in one of the safe rooms and pull a blanket over her. She curls in on herself instinctively, exhaustion crashing down now that the danger has passed. I dim the lights, keep the room quiet.
She’s asleep within minutes.
Deep. Boneless. Safe.
I stand there longer than I should, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest.
Rowan.
Brave. Reckless. Stupidly, beautifully unafraid, has finally come full circle.