23. Clara
CLARA
NOW THAT WE’RE ALONE
Maverick has been distant since he came home from work last night. He still held me in bed, chasing away my nightmares with the security of his arms, but it felt different. Distant.
It fills me with restlessness, a coiling knot that refuses to unravel.
Determined to break the tension, I plan to make him breakfast and ask about the distance.
I sift through the dresser for my comfort outfit—leggings and a worn, oversized shirt.
My chosen armor for the day. Confrontation never fails to spike my anxiety, but I’m learning.
Learning to communicate instead of bottling up my emotions—a habit that’s hard to break.
As I pull on my clothes, an eerie sensation prickles down my spine. A feeling of being watched. It sinks its claws into me, making my skin erupt in goosebumps.
The feeling doesn’t fade as I hurry downstairs, hoping to beat Maverick to the kitchen .
I should start breakfast, but unease grips me, driving me to check the doors and locks instead.
Only after I’ve reassured myself do I grab a glass of water and pull up the security app on my phone—Maverick had the system installed a few days ago, just like he promised.
I scan the feed from the exterior cameras, hoping to quiet the gnawing in my gut.
Then I see it.
The glass slips from my fingers, shattering at my feet.
Juno rounds the corner seconds before Maverick, barking and heading straight for me. Maverick holds him back, his sharp gaze flicking from the broken glass to my frozen stance. I feel the blood drain from my face, my body locked in terror.
My eyes burn with unshed tears, and I grip the phone until my knuckles whiten.
“Fuck, sunshine. Hold on. Don’t move.”
Distantly, I hear Maverick open the entry hall closet, then slam it shut.
Before I can fully register what’s happening, I’m lifted into his arms. The heavy cadence of his footsteps echoes through the house as he carries me into the living room, lowering me onto the couch before kneeling at my feet.
His arms encircle my legs, a silent attempt to ground me, but the comfort feels just out of reach; I’m too shaken.
“He’s found me,” I whisper. The image burns in my mind—a figure cloaked in black, waving at me, letting me know he’s come for me. The Grim Reaper’s come to collect his due. “He’s found me. He’s found me.”
Juno shoves his way through Maverick’s hold and presses his head against my thigh, urging me to run my fingers through his fur.
With a gentle touch, Maverick pries the phone from my grip.
“Fuck.” His voice is tight as he glances at the screen. Then he pulls out his own phone, barking orders before turning back to me.
“You’re safe, Clara. I promise. You’re safe.”
Am I?
Are we ever truly safe, or do we simply live under a false sense of security?
Something tells me there is only one truth. No one is ever truly safe—there is only the illusion of safety. And mine has shattered, scattered like the shards of glass on the cold kitchen floor.
Without responding, I wipe the tears from my face and push to my feet. No. I will not let him do this to me again.
He turned me into a shell of myself once, stripped me of everything until I was nothing but a hollow echo. Unrecognizable. It’s taken everything—everything—to claw my way out of that black abyss.
Never again.
The fear pulsing through my veins ignites into something hotter, sharper, until I’m set ablaze with rage.
Maverick calls my name, but I don’t stop. I rip open the front door, ignoring his protests.
There.
A single white envelope—addressed to me—is taped to the door, swaying slightly in the breeze.
He wants to taunt me? To control me with fear? Fine .
I snatch the envelope down, slam the door shut, and march back into the living room. Maverick watches me, silent but wary. He doesn’t try to stop me as I sit, my fingers tightening around the envelope.
My name is scrawled across it in black ink. With a heart.
A fucking heart.
Maverick exhales sharply. “Clara?—“
“No.” My voice is steel. “I won’t let him win, Maverick. Not this time.”
I tear open the envelope, my pulse hammering in my ears.
I almost regret it.
Inside is a single photo—one that will haunt me forever.
A woman. Slumped against the steering wheel of a car, her body trapped in the twisted metal. Blood stains her face, but it’s her eyes that consume me.
Lifeless. Staring into nothing.
A chill skates down my spine. I flip over the picture, noticing the message he’s left for me.
A taunt. A promise.
A warning.
Still think you’re safe, Clar?
Maverick takes one look at the photo, and his face blanches.
His jaw tightens, muscles flexing beneath his trimmed beard as his grip on the couch cushions turns his fingertips red and knuckles white.
In his other hand, he barely restrains himself from crumpling the photograph.
His breathing is slow, controlled—too controlled—as if he’s trying to keep himself from reacting, to keep his emotions in check.
But his eyes betray him.
They darken with something raw, something dangerous, thickening the air between us until it feels suffocating.
I’m silent as I watch his chest rise and fall—the deep, measured breaths doing nothing to calm the tremor in his hands. His nostrils flare as he reads the message scrawled on the back.
Then, slowly, he exhales through his nose, dropping the picture and dragging a hand through his silver-streaked hair. His usual composure—his steady, unwavering strength—feels like it’s on the verge of snapping.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low. Tight. Lethal.
“That son of a bitch.”
His tone sends a shiver through me. Because for the first time since this nightmare began, Maverick looks truly shaken. Not just angry, but thoroughly rattled.
I’ve never seen Maverick like this.
It should frighten me, but it doesn’t.
I don’t know who this woman was, but she meant something to Maverick. Her death shook him.
He left this message for me, but he fucked up. He made this personal for the one person who has the means to tear him down.
Now that I know he’s out there—waiting for me—I’m ready for this battle.
And I’m not alone.