Chapter Two
Mara Collins’s face still burned where Grant Havelock, her dick biscuit of a boss who was apparently a rampant fucking criminal to boot, slapped her.
Not once. Twice.
The first time had been a shock. The second she had seen coming and knew it to be deliberate, meant to humiliate, to remind her how small she was supposed to feel sitting across the desk she’d worked behind for five years.
By the grace of God, she’d made it out, but she was by no means out of danger.
She’d known it for three blocks now—long enough that denial had burned away, leaving only cold awareness behind her ribs. The city moved around her in its usual late-night rhythm—traffic humming, a bus exhaling at the curb, laughter spilling out of a bar doorway. Normal. Loud. Alive.
None of it touched her.
She didn’t look back. Looking back was how prey tripped.
She kept her shoulders hunched, breathing uneven, letting the world see exactly what she was, a shaken woman leaving work late, eyes glassy, steps unsteady.
Distraught sold better than defiant. She adjusted her pace by half a step, just enough to test the feeling that she was being followed by someone without advertising it.
The presence behind her adjusted too.
Her pulse kicked.
Okay, she thought. So, it’s not paranoia.
She kept walking.
She couldn’t go to the authorities. She had knowledge of more than one senior police officer who frequented the offices of Grant Havelock on a regular basis. That could not be coincidence.
Mara had learned how to disappear when she was young. Not the dramatic kind—no wigs or fake names—but the quieter version. Neutral clothes. Purposeful stride. Eyes forward. Don’t invite conversation. Don’t give men a reason to look twice.
Tonight, she was failing spectacularly.
Her phone vibrated in her hand, the movement pulling at her ribs where a fist had landed earlier. Not hard enough to break anything. Just hard enough to hurt.
Controlled. Measured.
That should have been her first real clue that they were after something more than what she had in her pocket. She didn’t check her phone immediately. Any sudden movement felt like a mistake. When she finally glanced down, her stomach dropped.
Unknown Number: You shouldn’t have taken those files.
Her fingers went numb.
She didn’t respond. She had a feeling that responding would be seen as confirmation.
The office building where she parked loomed ahead, dark glass reflecting the streetlights. She’d parked in the underground garage because it was closer, because she’d been tired, because she’d never imagined that a USB drive could cause an end to a late night like this.
Just get to the car, she told herself. Lock the doors. Drive away and regroup.
Another vibration.
Unknown Number: You’re making this harder than it needs to be.
She swallowed hard and slipped the phone into her pocket.
The garage entrance yawned open in front of her.
Every instinct she had screamed at her not to go in.
Mara hesitated for half a second—long enough to imagine turning around, walking back toward the light, flagging down help. Long enough to remember the office, the locked door, the way her boss had stood between her and it when she’d realized what was on the drive.
She’d always suspected that he wasn’t clean.
Fraud was one thing. Shell companies, cooked books, political favors, these were common in the corporate space.
But this? What she saw on the drive, and learned when dick biscuit started to monologue?
This was something else entirely. It would take a long time to forget the look on her boss’s face when she’d asked about the discrepancies.
The way his voice had gone cold. The way he’d said, “this is bigger than you understand.”
She stepped into the garage.
Her ribs ached with every breath. Her cheek throbbed. She welcomed the pain—it kept her sharp, kept her from shaking apart now that she was finally moving.
The air was cooler down here, stale with oil and concrete. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Her heels echoed too loudly, each step sounding like an announcement.
Her car was three rows in. If she could make it to her car, get it unlocked and start the damn thing, then she had a chance.
But as soon as that thought came to mind, she realized it was a pipe dream.
The guy behind her was too close, he would be on her before she could get there. She needed an alternative plan.
She slowed as she approached it, shoulders sagging, breath hitching. Let herself look exactly how they expected her to look—frightened, overwhelmed, alone. She fumbled with her keys, dropped them once on purpose.
Footsteps closed in behind her.
She waited until the first hand caught her arm.
“Please,” she whispered, letting her voice shake. “I—I don’t want any trouble.”
Another man crowded her space, too close, breath hot against her ear. “Then you should’ve stayed in your fucking lane.”
Her knees buckled.
She let them think she was collapsing.
The moment their grip loosened, Mara twisted hard and ran.
She bolted away from the car, veering sharply toward the stairwell at the far end of the garage. Heels skidded on concrete. Pain flared hot and bright through her ribs as someone lunged and missed.
She almost made it.
A hand slammed into her back, driving the air from her lungs. She cried out as she hit the wall beside the stairwell door. Fingers tangled in her hair, yanking her head back.
“Don’t,” she gasped.
Before she could recover, a fist drove into her ribs, precise and controlled—meant to hurt, not break.
“Dumb fucking move, bitch,” the man drawled in her ear, his rancid breath hot on her neck. “You think you can get away from me? Havelock will have my ass if I don’t bring you back.”
He spun her to face him, and the slap came fast and brutal, snapping her head to the side. White flashed behind her eyes. Stars burst across her vision.
She tasted blood.
Mara screamed then—raw, furious sound tearing out of her as she drove her knee up between the man’s legs. Not the direct hit she was going for because he anticipated the move, and turned, but enough that his grip loosened.
She wrenched free, slammed through the stairwell door, and ran.
She took the steps two at a time, lungs burning, pain screaming through her side. Halfway up, she jammed a shaking hand into her pocket.
The USB was still there.
Relief hit so hard it nearly dropped her to her knees.
She burst back out onto the street, sucking in cold night air—and nearly collided with someone stepping out of the shadows.
Strong hands closed around her arms.
She screamed again, swinging wildly.
Then the grip vanished.
The man holding her was yanked backward with brutal force. There was a sharp crack—bone on bone—and a sound like air leaving a body too fast. He hit the ground and didn’t get up.
Mara staggered, nearly falling.
Someone else stepped into her space.
She screamed again, swinging wildly—until strong hands caught her wrists. Not rough. Not gentle either. Just immovable.
“Stop,” a man said.
His voice was low. Controlled. It cut through the panic like a blade.
She froze.
He stood close, broad shoulders blocking her view of the rest of the garage.
Tall—well over six feet—with a build that spoke of strength earned the hard way rather than sculpted for show.
His dark jacket stretched across a solid chest, the fabric pulling faintly at the seams when he moved.
Short dark hair, cut close at the sides, framed a face marked by a faint scar along his jaw, pale against stubble.
His eyes were dark—almost black in the low light—sharp and steady, missing nothing.
No visible weapon, yet everything about him said he didn’t need one.
His grip stayed steady, careful not to hurt her.
“You’re safe,” he said.
She laughed hysterically. “That’s a lie.”
“No,” he replied. “As of right now, it’s a fact.”
She searched his face for anything she could use to categorize him—threat, rescuer, liar. His expression gave her nothing. Eyes dark. Assessing. Focused entirely on her.
Behind him, she saw movement. Two men dragged the unconscious body away, efficient and silent, disappearing between the parked cars.
Her knees went weak.
The man in front of her noticed immediately. He shifted, one hand sliding to her elbow, grounding her.
“Breathe,” he said. “In. Out.”
She did. Shallow at first. Then deeper.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She shook her head immediately. “I’m not giving you anything. Not my name. Not whatever you’re about to ask for next.”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “Smart. Stubborn. You’ve got a USB on you.”
Her breath hitched. Her hand went instinctively to her pocket.
“That’s none of your fucking business.”
“It became my business the second Havelock decided to hide the facilitation of human fucking trafficking behind corporate logistics,” he said flatly. “We saw it on your office cameras. You didn’t just stumble onto dirty books—you stumbled into something that gets people disappeared.”
Human trafficking? Her stomach turned. Jesus, what the hell? Her pulse roared in her ears. “You don’t know that.”
He leaned in just enough that she could smell leather and a hint of wood smoke. “I know he hit you. I know he locked the door because the fucker had more plans for you. And I know men were waiting downstairs before you ever left that building.”
She swallowed. Hard.
“I’m better off alone,” she shot back, even as doubt crept in. “I don’t need help.”
He snorted softly. “That’s bullshit.”
Her chin lifted. “Excuse me?”
“A lone woman with evidence always gets taken,” he said, voice roughening. “You never watched a fucking movie? You don’t have backup. You don’t have protection. And right now, you’re bleeding and shaking and standing in the open like a goddamn invitation.”
Silence stretched between them.
She thought of the hands. The stairwell. The way they’d closed in like they already owned her.
“You here to take it from me?” she asked. “The drive?”