Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Lyra
The path ahead curves gently through the park. The trees arch overhead like silent sentinels. My running shoes hit the pavement in a steady rhythm—left, right, left—each step a reminder to breathe, to keep moving, to outrun whatever ghost that stranger stirred up inside me.
The binaural beats hum faintly in my ears, a white-noise shield against the world, but they do nothing to dull the prickling at the base of my skull.
Too calm.
The words echo in my head. Too calm. Too calm. Too calm.
A shadow detaches from the cluster of trees up ahead—fast, deliberate. Not a jogger. Not a dog walker. A man, bulky, in a plain black zip-up sweatshirt. His hood is shading his face.
The thug lunges straight for me with the precision of a predator who’s been waiting.
My adrenaline surges, hot and electric, sharpening every reflex.
Time seems to slow as I pivot, dropping low, but he’s on me before I can fully dodge.
Then he shoots out his hand, not for my throat or my arms, but for the chain and locket around my neck. How can he possibly know that I have it?
No.
Desperation kicks in. It’s a hard-wired instinct from years of my father’s twisted “games” that were really lessons in survival.
I slam my elbow back, aiming for his ribs. I connect with a crunch, and air whooshes out of him in a satisfying grunt.
He staggers backward, but only for a heartbeat. He’s bigger, stronger, and he recovers too fast, wrapping an arm around my waist like a vise, to yank me off balance.
“Give it to me, bitch.” His breath is hot and sour against my ear. And he has some sort of accent. Eastern European, maybe?
His claws at my locket, tugging hard enough to make the chain bite into my skin.
I twist, stomping down on his instep—another lesson from Dad’s endless drills—but he anticipates it, shifting his weight.
Pain flares in my side as he tightens his hold, squeezing the air from my lungs. My vision spots. I claw at his arm, nails digging in, but it’s like scratching stone. He’s not letting go. Not until he has what he wants.
But he can’t possibly know about there’s something hidden behind the photo plate in my locket.
Panic edges in, but I shove it down.
Think, Lyra. Allie. Whoever the hell you are today.
My dad’s voice thundering in my head, I go limp—feigning surrender—then explode upward, driving the back of my head toward his nose. He jerks away just in time, cursing in a language I don’t recognize.
Thank God his grip loosens enough for me to suck in a breath.
That’s when I hear it—footsteps pounding the path behind us. Not random. Purposeful.
The thug hears it too. He hesitates, his hand freezing mid-tug.
And then the stranger from the coffee shop is there.
He sets his to-go cup down on the grass—deliberate, unhurried—like this is just another morning errand.
Then he moves. Fluid. Lethal. He clamps one hand on the thug’s shoulder. Then he twists the man’s arm back in a hold that looks effortless but makes the guy howl.
The attacker releases me, staggering as the stranger drives a knee into his gut, folding him over.
I stumble back, gasping, hand flying to my throat. The locket is still there, protected beneath my hoodie and shirt, warm against my pounding heart.
The thug recovers faster than he should, shoving off the ground with a snarl.
He swings wildly, but the stranger ducks, counters with a precise strike to the throat. My attacker chokes, eyes bulging, but he doesn’t go down. Instead, he manages to wrench free and bolts, crashing through the underbrush like a bull, vanishing into the trees before either of us can react.
Not even breathing hard, the stranger straightens. His dark eyes flick to me, assessing. Not pity. Not concern. Something sharper. Evaluating.
“You okay?” His voice is that same gravel-over-velvet rumble, but now it’s edged with concern.
I nod, even though my side aches and my neck stings from the chain’s pull. “I’m fine.” Another lie. But admitting weakness isn’t an option. Not to him. Not to anyone.
He scans the trees where the thug disappeared, then back to me. “That wasn’t random.”
“Yes, it was.” The words snap out before I can stop them. “Wrong person. Mugging gone bad. Happens all the time.”
He doesn’t buy it. I can see it in the way his jaw tightens, the way he steps closer—not invading, but close enough that I feel the heat rolling off him.
Close enough to smell the faint hint of coffee on his breath, mixed with something clean and masculine that shouldn’t make my pulse stutter. But it does.
“If it was random, he’d have disappeared when I arrived.”
I shrug again. “Must have thought I had more money on me than I do. But I only carry enough for my chai.”
He reaches into his pocket for his phone.
Freezing, I scowl. “What are you doing?”
“Calling the police.”
“No!” I panic. “The guy is long gone. And I’ll be late for an important meeting. I can’t afford to lose this client.”
He assesses me, making me squirm. Everyone else accepts what I say at face value. But not him. And not the police either. And I can’t risk anyone finding out who I really am. “I need to get going.”
The confounding man curls his lips in a charming, almost irresistible half smile. “No thanks for saving you?”
I blink. “Thanks?”
“I did rescue a damsel in distress.”
You have me confused with someone else. I can take care of myself. The compact Glock 43 tucked into a holster that’s hidden beneath my hoodie proves it.
The weapon had been a gift from my dad on my tenth birthday. “For when the games turn real,” he’d said with his signature crooked grin that attracted no matter where he went on the planet.
While normal parents took their kids for ice cream or bought a cake and gifts for birthday presents, mine took me to the shooting range.
Belatedly realizing he is waiting for some sort of response, I tip my head to one side. “Thank you, but I don’t need a hero.”
“You got one anyway.” He picks up his coffee as if nothing happened. All in a day’s work for him?
I turn away from him, not to continue my run but to get back to my apartment as soon as I can, where it’s safer.
I’ve only taken a few steps when he calls out, “Allie!”
Despite myself, the command in his tone making me instantly freeze.
Reluctantly, stupidly, I turn.
“Just in case.”
He reaches into his pocket—slowly, so I see it’s not a threat—and pulls out a card. Matte black, embossed with a hawk silhouette. Hawkeye Security.
Oh fuck no.
The name hits like a gut punch. Dad’s old warnings reverberate. “Stay away from Hawkeye. They’re the ones who almost caught me in Vienna. The ones who guard the shadows.”
“Stryker,” he says, finally offering a name. It fits him—sharp, unyielding. “If you change your mind.”
I won’t.
I meet his gaze—those dark eyes that see too much—and force a glare to hide the fear clawing up my throat. The unwanted spark too. The way his takedown was so controlled, so dominant, it makes something twist low in my belly. Something I can’t afford.
Ignoring him, I head off at a full-out sprint, each footfall pounding the panic down. But I feel his eyes on my back. Watching. Waiting.
This morning has turned my world upside down.
Despite my attempts to keep a low profile, whoever killed my dad might have found me.
And Stryker? He’s a complication I never saw coming. One that feels like trouble wrapped in temptation.
I need to disappear. Again.
But I’m scared it might already be too late.