Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Lyra
“There is no we, Stryker. I handle my own messes.” My voice is steady, but inside, my heart’s slamming like a trapped animal.
On an endless loop, my dad’s warnings about Hawkeye scream in my head. Stryker is an enemy I have to watch out for.
And yet here he is, standing in my trashed apartment like he owns the damn place.
I look again, and this time, I notice a third figure—Gray Hoodie Guy—slouched in a parked car across the street. The vehicle’s engine is idling, and exhaust curls like a warning.
They’re boxing me in, and suddenly the locket against my chest feels like a noose that’s tightening.
Stryker’s voice cuts through my low-grade anxiety. His voice is steady and calm, showing he’s no stranger to this kind of situation.
“My condo isn’t far.”
I shouldn’t consider his invitation. But right now, it may be my best hope.
“Your choice.”
His dark eyes lock on mine, unyielding, and I hate how they see too much—how they make my pulse stutter, and not just from fear.
There’s a pull in those enigmatic depths, dangerous and unwanted, like a riptide. I’m too smart to swim in that direction.
Aren’t I?
I should tell him to go to hell. To take his Hawkeye bullshit and his hero complex and leave me to my shadows. After all, I’ve been on my own since my father’s death.
But as I open my mouth, the suited man steps off the curb, heading for my building.
My survival instincts—honed by years of narrow escapes—kick in.
One night.
I’ll stay one night with Stryker. Just long enough to find my bearings. Then I’ll vanish with a new name, a new city. No attachments. And definitely no Hawkeye agent in my life. “Kitchen window.” I hate how the words taste like surrender.
He nods.
As we move through the space, I glance over my shoulder at the wreckage of my life—slashed cushions, scattered books—and the violation twists like a knife. The locket burns hotter against my skin.
Stryker’s hand grazes my arm, light but firm. “Move, Allie.”
The name jars me, but I nod, shoving down the spark his touch ignites.
Outside the kitchen window is a rusty fire escape, no cameras to catch us, just how I like it. It’s always my choice to live where eyes can’t follow.
I climb onto the counter and yank the window open. The September chill hits harder than it had even an hour ago, clawing under my hoodie.
Stryker’s right behind me, his presence a solid heat that I shouldn’t notice but do. Damn him.
The fire escape creaks under my weight as I swing onto the ladder, my running shoes gripping the metal rungs.
My unwanted protector follows, silent, his movements fluid like he’s done this a hundred times.
For a moment, we pause.
Below us, the alley is a shadowed slit between buildings—trash bins, puddles glinting in the weak morning light.
My pulse hammers, but I force my breaths even, Dad’s training kicking in: Control the fear, Lyra. It’s just another game. Except this game could kill me.
We continue, Stryker in the lead.
When we’re halfway down, a shadow shifts below us. Not a stray cat or a drunk stumbling home—a man, bulky, black sweatshirt.
Stryker notices the exact moment I do.
My attacker is waiting, eyes glinting up at us like a wolf scenting blood. My stomach lurches. He’s not alone. Footsteps crunch from the alley’s mouth as another figure closes in.
Stryker flashes me a hand signal—two fingers, a sharp flick toward the ground. Stay low.
I nod, gripping the ladder more tightly, my muscles coiled. He drops the last few feet, landing silent as a panther, and I follow, quieter than I feel.
The man charges, a knife flashing in his fist, aiming for Stryker.
Big mistake.
Stryker moves like liquid steel—sidestepping, grabbing the thug’s wrist, twisting it until the knife clatters to the pavement.
The guy grunts, swinging his meaty fist, but Stryker’s faster, slamming an elbow into the attacker’s jaw with a crack that echoes off the bricks.
When he staggers, I don’t waste time—I sweep out my foot, catching his legs and dropping him to the asphalt. Dad’s lessons again: Hit hard, hit fast. Expect the unexpected.
Stryker glances at me, a flicker of approval in his eyes. I give him a tight nod as my traitorous heart skips a beat.
“Move out!” He’s already sprinting toward the alley’s end.
I’m right behind him, our breaths syncing as we burst onto the street.
The second figure—a wiry guy with a scar slicing his cheek—spots us, shouting to others I can’t see. The chase is on.
We tear through Wash Park, Stryker leading, dodging joggers and strollers like they’re obstacles in a combat course.
He vaults a low fence with fluid grace, and I keep pace, my legs burning, heart hammering but singing with the adrenaline rush.
The locket bounces against my skin, a metronome to my fear and thrill. I spot a crowded farmer’s market across the street—booths of apples and kettle corn, voices haggling—and veer toward it, grabbing Stryker’s sleeve. “This way.”
He doesn’t argue, following as I weave us through the chaos, past a woman balancing pumpkins, under a banner flapping in the wind. Scarface is close, his boots pounding, but the crowd slows him.
Stryker’s hand grazes my back, guiding me left, and then he’s on another thug who breaks through the throng—a quick chokehold, precise and brutal, drops the guy without a sound.
“Stay close, Allie.” His voice is low, intimate, like we’re sharing a secret instead of running for our lives.
I hate how it warms me.
We break free of the market, sprinting toward a side street. There’s a black SUV waiting up ahead, nondescript, tinted windows screaming operative.
His?
My guess is right.
It belongs to Styker.
We dive in, and instantly he peels out, tires screeching as he weaves through Denver’s one-way streets.
A sharp turn throws me against the door, my pulse syncing with the engine’s growl. He doubles back, eyes flicking to the rearview, calculating every move like a chess master.
A car tails us, a black sedan that’s too close.
Stryker cuts through an alley, then a parking lot, losing them with a precision that’s almost art. I shouldn’t be impressed. After all, he’s a highly trained agent.
He’s a weapon, and a twisted part of me wants to be near him.
The city blurs past, and my breath catches, not just from the chase but from him—his hands steady on the wheel, his jaw set, his scent filling the car—spicy, dangerous, and masculine—cutting through my panic.
“You okay?” He doesn’t take his eyes off the road.
“Fine.” We’re clear, and I’m alive. I could have gotten away without him, but having him there was definitely an advantage. Not that I’d tell him that.
Minutes later, no tail, we pull into an underground garage, the SUV’s rumble echoing off concrete walls.
Stryker kills the engine, and the sudden silence presses against my ears.
I’m still wired, my skin buzzing from the chase, from the way his hand grazed my back in the market, steady and sure.
I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be anywhere near him, but my options are thinning faster than the morning mist. One night, I remind myself. Just one.
He leads me to an elevator, his stride clipped, purposeful. No words, just the faint creak of his boots and the hum of fluorescent lights.
I allow my fingers to hover near that Glock that’s still tucked beneath my hoodie, a reflex I can’t shake.
The doors slide open, and we step into a hallway—gray, unremarkable, the kind of place that doesn’t exist unless you’re looking for it.
His unit is at the end, a steel-reinforced door with a keypad that blinks red until he presses his finger to an unseen touchpad. Then he opens the door for me.
Inside, his place hits me like a distorted mirror of my own. Stark. Functional. No photos, no knickknacks, just clean lines and shadows.
A laptop sits on a steel desk. A go bag slouches by the door like it’s waiting for its own escape.
The air smells faintly of leather and gun oil, and I feel a pang, as sharp as it is unwanted. We’re both running from something. But I shove down my unsettling insight and pace to the window to check the street below.
It’s empty for now, allowing me to exhale.
Stryker leans against the counter, arms crossed, assessing me.
He sees too damn much, and I don’t like it.
“Who trashes an apartment like that?” His voice is low, probing, like he’s picking a lock. “What’re they after?”
I force a shrug, my face a mask. “Wrong place, wrong time. Bad luck.” The lie slips out as smoothly as it always does, but my pulse spikes.
The fact my father stashed the locket and a fob inside my go bag before being brutally gunned down in his vehicle is something I won’t tell anyone.
Because the annoying man is going to keep pushing, I pivot, throwing a question back at him. “Why do you care?” I frown. “What’s in it for you?”
He doesn’t flinch, just tilts his head, a half smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t like bullies.” It’s vague, a dodge, but there’s a flicker in his gaze—curiosity, maybe, or something hotter. It makes my stomach twist, and not entirely from fear.
He moves to the kitchenette, pulling a tin of black tea from an otherwise-bare cabinet. “Something to drink?” As he asks, he’s already filling the kettle.
The gesture is small, practical, but it catches me off guard—too human for a man who moves like a weapon.
Even though I haven’t responded, he soon carries a mug toward me. The steam curls up, sharp with scent of bergamot.
His fingers brush mine as he hands it over, and a jolt shoots through me, electric, unwanted.
I jerk back, the tea sloshing, and his eyes narrow.
Did he feel it too?
“Thanks.” I retreat to the window again, sipping to cover the flush creeping up my neck.
The tea is bitter and grounding, but it does nothing to dull the awareness of him—his broad shoulders filling the space, the way his T-shirt clings to muscle, the quiet confidence that makes me want to both run and stay.
Get it together, Lyra.
I’m not some girl who melts for a guy who plays hero. I’m Allie, the ghost, the liar. But his gaze follows me, steady, like he’s reading every lie I’ve ever told.
“You’re good out there.” Voice quiet, he breaks the silence. “The market, the leg sweep. Not many can hold their own like that that.” His tone’s casual, but there’s respect in it, and it hits me deep, stirring something dangerous.
Since I’m not sure what to say, I face him and sip my tea.
“Lone wolf’s a tough gig.” His voice is low but inviting as he attempts to get to know me. “Even wolves need a pack sometimes.”
His scent—spicy, dangerous—wraps around me, and for a second, I imagine what it’d be like to lean into it, to let someone else carry the weight. But that’s not my life. Never will be.
I step back, breaking the spell, my mug clattering as I put it on a coffee table. “Just a bad day.”
He watches me, unblinking, like he’s piecing together a puzzle. Then he folds his massive arms. His voice drops to a velvet rumble that pins me in place. “Who are you, exactly, Allie?”