12. Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve
HARLOW
It’s been a week since Lynx admitted to murdering Rhys. According to the news channel, he’s now a missing person and police are asking the public to come forward with any information on his whereabouts.
And me? Well, I’m a wreck. So much so that I’ve called in sick every shift since then in exchange for pacing my apartment and ripping my hair out by the roots. I’ve also taken to reaching for my gun every time something goes bump in the night.
Which is exactly why I need to get out from within these four walls. To prove to myself that I’m not a weak little bird anymore.
And some fresh air would do me some good. It’s not like hiding out in my apartment is keeping me safe anyway. Clearly Lynx is capable of picking a lock.
Besides, if he wants to kill me, there’s not a whole lot I can do about it other than keep my gun close by.
With renewed determination cascading through me—because fuck him—I change into a pair of leggings and an oversized hoodie and tie my hair back into a high ponytail, triple checking that my handgun is loaded before tucking it into my crossbody bag and leaving my apartment.
I take the stairs down to the front entrance, scanning the desolate street and alleyway for any signs of a threat before stepping outside.
The moment my feet are over the threshold, I suck in a lungful of fresh city air that smells faintly of garbage, exhaust fumes, and urine.
Home sweet home, baby.
It’s dark out now, the late autumn sun long gone and nothing but the moonlight and streetlamps to light the alleys of this side of the city.
The seedy side. The side where criminals lurk in every dark corner and residents turn a blind eye to what’s happening on the streets right outside their houses.
But this is my life, goddamn it. And it’ll be a cold day in hell before I cower away in my apartment and wait idly by for death to inevitably come for me.
Besides, I have a weapon and am not afraid to use it against anyone who dares to threaten me.
Bring it on, fuckers.
Flipping my hood over my head, I take off down the sidewalk, my eyes darting from side to side and ears open as I wander down the same streets I often do, see the same houses, turn the same corners. All the while feeling a presence lurking behind me.
It could be Lynx.
But it could also be one of the demons from my past. Surely it had to have been one of them that hired Lynx to kill me.
Even if it weren’t, by now, they would’ve heard of Rhys’s disappearance.
And I’ll be suspect number one for those assholes because there’s not a doubt in my mind Rhys would’ve called them up the second he recognized me and boasted that he found me first.
But when I hit the main drag and slow my pace, the ominous energy surrounding me thickens to sludge, and my confidence begins to wane.
I steel my spine and grit my teeth against the urge to run back to my apartment and lock myself inside because I’m not that girl anymore.
I won’t break beneath the weight of the fear they instill in me. I won’t even fucking bend.
I’m goddamn titanium.
Just as I’m passing an unlit area with a few condemned houses, a loud crash startles me, and I whip my head to the right to find a masculine figure stepping out of the shadows, his face concealed within his hood as he stomps toward me.
All that confidence I feigned shrivels up like an old grape when I realize it’s not Lynx.
Which means …
Widening my stance, I whip my gun from my bag and lift it in front of me, my hands shaking as I click the safety off and aim it directly at his head.
“One more step and I’ll blow your brains out,” I threaten, cocking the hammer.
He slows his strides, his face nothing more than a cavernous hole within his hood. But I can feel his gaze on me. Assessing me. Weighing the odds of me missing the shot.
I may be ten seconds from having a mental breakdown, but my life is on the line.
And I refuse to let this be the way I die.
I refuse to miss.
“I’m warning you.”
My finger slides over the trigger. Adrenaline crashes through me like a tsunami.
This is it. I’m really going to kill a man. Oh god. Here we go.
I can do it.
No, I fucking can’t.
Yes, I fucking can.
Five. Four. Three. Two. One.
Breathe.
Just as I’m preparing to put a bullet in his head, something cold and smooth seals over my mouth from behind, catching me by surprise.
My gun flies from my grip as a strong arm coils around my waist and hauls me backward into the inky shadows of the unlit alleyway, my screams muffled by a thick leather glove.
I thrash and fight the entire way, my legs kicking out in front of me and one of my sneakers flying off my foot and pinging off a nearby dumpster. I grapple and claw and make as much noise as I possibly can in hopes of someone—anyone—noticing.
“Shut the fuck up,” the man behind me snarls in my ear, his breath hot and acidic against my sweat-slicked neck.
My fingers find purchase in his bare forearms as I tear at him, flesh embedding itself beneath my nails as I drag them down every inch of skin I can find. If these pricks are going to murder me, then I’m sure as hell taking as much of their DNA with me to the morgue as I can.
They may win this fight. But they won’t get away with it.
The first man—the one in the hood—appears in front of me, his head angled but face still shrouded in darkness.
Still, there’s a familiarity about him. And I realize exactly where I’ve seen him before when he reaches up and flips his hood back to reveal himself.
My eyes widen in horror as another shrill scream rips at my throat.
It’s Calvin, the handsy douche that Lynx scared off at the club.
Confusion takes the wheel of the emotional rollercoaster I’m on.
“Well, well, well …” he says with a vile grin, his eyes like two black coals raking over my body and his breath painting strokes of condensation across the limited space between our faces.
“He told me you’d be a challenge. But this …
” He makes a disturbing clucking noise with his tongue and licks his lips.
He? Who’s he?
It doesn’t matter. Right now, I need to focus on breaking free. On surviving.
But the bastard restraining me is too big and strong, and I don’t know how the hell to get out of the hold he has me locked in.
“You’re afraid,” Calvin says with a hint of humor, closing the remaining inches between us. “That’s good. You should be.”
And then he winds up and punches me in the stomach. It’s hard enough that the man holding me takes a small step back, pulling me with him. I choke and sputter as my gut clenches and a terrible ache radiates through me, making my head swim with nausea.
“Motherfucker. I’m going to kill you,” I spew behind the hand over my mouth, blinking away the tears stinging my eyes because that fucking hurt.
When the pain finally passes and I can see straight, I focus all my energy on glaring at Calvin, sharp puffs of air leaving my nostrils as I snort like an angry bull and wriggle desperately, refusing to give up.
Just as I’m lifting a foot to jam it back into the kneecap of whoever’s holding me, Calvin’s eyes dart to the side, widening to saucers.
Before he has a chance to act on whatever has him suddenly backing away, I’m sent barreling sideways. The movement is swift and unexpected and knocks the wind from my lungs.
I throw my hands out to catch myself, my palms smashing into the concrete before my face has a chance to connect with the unforgiving surface. My wrists buckle beneath my weight as I collapse into a heap of bones, crying out as searing pain shoots up my arms and into my shoulders.
But the pain is quickly overpowered by the instinct to put as much distance between my aching body and whatever’s happening behind me.
Scrambling across the alley, I ignore the broken shards of glass and dirt embedding themselves into my hands and knees and plaster my back to a dumpster as I take in the horrifying scene before me.
There’s a third man now. He’s dressed head to toe in black and much taller and broader than the other two. Big. Terrifying. And he’s swinging a large knife as he slices and dices at them.
Slash. Slash. Slash.
I count the strokes.
Nine. Ten. Eleven.
The air mists with crimson, a million microscopic particles of blood floating effortlessly through time as my attackers are flayed wide open.
Something warm spatters my face and the metallic tang of blood stings my tongue.
I swallow the vomit rising in my throat and desperately try to convince my muscles to cooperate. But my legs are jelly and my arms feel like lead weights. And every brain cell in my head is frozen in terror.
I can’t move. I can only watch.
The man is shrouded in darkness, so I can’t see his face, but I can see the blood speckling his hoodie and jeans as he hovers over the two lifeless bodies sprawled on the ground before him, his knife at his side and dripping blood as his chest rises and falls with labored breaths.
His size and presence are all-consuming, his shadow stretching far beyond the space between us, reaching out to me like the bony fingers of the Grim Reaper.
He angles his head toward me, and even though I can’t see him, I can feel his eyes boring into me.
The heat is familiar.
I squint into the dark, honing in on his face.
“Lynx?” It’s barely a whisper.
“Run,” he growls, his voice husky and deep and leaving no room for protest. “Now.”
As if my body needed permission, I do as I’m told, scrambling to my feet and bolting around the back of an abandoned house and darting through the backyards of the neighboring properties.
Motion sensors blink on. Dogs bark. But I keep powering through, my strides long and lungs burning from taking in too much oxygen as I run as fast and hard as my body will carry me.
I reach my apartment in record time and take the stairs two at a time, fumbling my key with shaky hands as I unlock my door, throw myself inside, and relock it.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I take a few steps backward, staring at the closed door as though it’s grown a face and is laughing at me.
Oh god. Oh god oh god oh god.
I’m not entirely sure if what just happened is real or if I’ve finally cracked and am hallucinating.
It doesn’t matter.
I can’t call the police. And I have nowhere to run.
For the first time in six years, I feel completely helpless.
At the mercy of the man with the beautiful navy eyes and a penchant for spilling blood in order to protect me even though he’s been ordered to kill me.
Me, the rebellious daughter of a dead priest.
A stripper with nothing to live for and a whole boatload of baggage.
What does he want from me?
Only two things spring to mind. Either he wants sex, or he wants to torture me before he finally does his job.
Or perhaps he wants both.
I close my eyes and breathe through the panic.
But it’s pointless.
My knees buckle. My vision blurs. The room tilts off its axis, my head feeling as though it’s detaching itself from my body and floating off into outer space.
The last thing I remember before I black out is glancing down at my feet and noticing I’m only wearing one shoe.
But I’m not unconscious for long, waking in a startle on my floor and springing to my feet.
And then I do the only thing I can think to do.
I run.