Chapter 1 – Tessa #2
I grab the piece of rebar next to me and hoist myself onto the ledge of the dumpster, muscles screaming in protest. The metal bar is cold and slick in my hands, but I grip it tight and swing.
Glass cracks.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
On the fourth hit, it gives.
A rain of jagged edges tumbles down into the alley. I duck, shielding my face and breathing hard.
Blood slides down my forearm.
Because heaven forbid anything I do come without interest.
I yank the sleeve of my hoodie down, wrapping it tightly around the cut, and force myself to focus. I can’t panic now. The hard part’s not over. Not yet.
I climb in through the window—legs first, elbow next—and drop down into the darkened shelter hallway with a thud that echoes louder than it should.
Waffles recognizes me and whimpers before I even reach his cage.
I crouch low, murmur softly, and unlatch the crate with hands that won’t stop shaking. He presses his nose to my chest. He knows I’m here to save him.
I tuck him inside the front of my hoodie, careful to keep his nose free, and feel his heart beat against mine.
He’s so small. So light.
“I got you,” I whisper.
He doesn’t make a sound.
Hauling myself back through the window one-handed is clumsy and loud, my knees scraping against the frame. One foot catches. I nearly drop him. Panic spikes so fast I taste it. But I don’t let go.
When I hit the dumpster again, I stumble to my knees, holding Waffles close to my chest and breathing hard.
It’s done.
He’s safe.
And I haven’t been caught.
Yet.
I sit there for a moment, crouched beneath the busted window, hoodie zipped halfway over a trembling dog and sweat-soaked skin. My jeans are torn at the knee. My cut arm is still bleeding through my clothes. The sting is nothing compared to the high-pitched ringing in my ears.
I did it!
Which, statistically, is either the most inspiring or the most self-sabotaging sentence of my life.
Waffles's heartbeat flutters against mine, sending Morse code: Please don't let them take me back.
“I won’t,” I whisper, pressing my cheek against his tiny head. “You’re safe now. I promise.”
That’s the thing about promises: I don’t make them unless I know I’ll die trying to keep them. Not because I’m noble or brave or whatever fake gutsy adjective people slap on girls when they want to romanticize the damage.
But because when you grow up being let down by every man who promised something and never delivered, you get weirdly militant about not doing the same.
My mom taught me that. The hard way.
Which means I’ll deal with the fallout later.
Right now, I need to get out of this alley. Before someone calls the cops. Before the adrenaline wears off and the pain in my arm gets loud enough to ruin my shaky calm. Before the weight of everything I’ve done crushes what little future I have left.
I shift to stand before climbing onto the ledge.
Waffles whines. I murmur a soft apology, adjusting the sweatshirt to support him better, when—
“Seems like jumping’s your best option.”
My heart jerks, and I scream, jumping off the dumpster and nearly breaking my leg.
That voice cuts cleaner than the glass still clinging to the broken window behind me.
It does not belong in this alley.
It belongs in moot courtrooms and hallway whispers. In the nightmares of second-year students who’ve crossed the wrong person. In the quiet power vacuum of every law school scandal that somehow, mysteriously, resolved in someone else’s ruin.
It belongs to him.
I turn slowly, every muscle in my body locking up.
And there he is, standing at the alley’s edge.
Rowan. Fucking. King.
My ex.
Of course, he’s wearing black.
Tailored coat. Slacks. Hands in his pockets. This is just another Tuesday, where he ruins someone’s life and files the paperwork afterward.
Waffles squirms under my hoodie, but I can’t move.
“What are you doing here?” I manage, though the words sound borrowed from someone less afraid.
His head tilts. A faint, unreadable smile flickers across his mouth. “Midnight jog.”
Bullshit.
Rowan doesn’t jog. He doesn’t even sweat. Rowan calculates and corners. He watches and waits.
I’ve seen him across campus—at clinics, case briefings, recruitment events— always a step ahead and present without ever being officially involved. He’s the name people whisper. A legal ghost story. The kind that haunts deans and threatens careers with nothing but a glance.
They call him the King of Havemeyer.
Because if Rowan King hands you a playing card with IOU scrawled in black Sharpie, you’re his.
No terms. No time limits. No questions.
You do what he asks when he asks it.
Or else.
No one talks about what “or else” means. Just that it’s real. Just that the last girl who said no dropped out before midterms, and no one’s seen her since.
So, I’ve kept my distance. Ducking out of rooms when he enters. Taking the long way to class when I see him in the quad. Because one favor from him costs more than failure; it costs your soul on retainer.
And now he’s standing here.
Watching me.
Recording me.
“What do you want?” I ask, my voice smaller than I’d like.
He doesn’t answer. Just reaches into his coat and pulls out his phone.
The screen glows. Recording: 00:12:37.
“You didn’t—”
“Start when you picked up the brick? No.” He taps the screen. “I waited until the monologue. You were very dramatic, by the way.”
My stomach drops.
I press my back to the dumpster, Waffles cradled tighter against me. Nothing can protect me from what’s coming.
“Rowan…” I whisper. “Please.”
“Careful,” he says, eyes narrowing. “You’re bleeding all over city property.”
He takes a step forward, slow and deliberate. The final piece slides into place.
This isn’t surprise.
It’s not even curiosity.
This is strategy. He’s been following me. Waiting.
For what? A mistake? A misstep? An opportunity?
No. For this.
Because Rowan doesn’t do favors.
He collects debts.
“You’ve been watching me,” I say quietly.
His silence confirms everything.
The boy I once knew is long gone. Replaced by the man in front of me who is emotionally bulletproof, and has a memory that never forgets.
“I’m not going to the cops,” he says.
I blink. “You’re not?”
“No.”
I exhale, but it catches halfway through.
Because his eyes haven’t softened.
Ah, now I understand.
I was never going to get away with this. Not really.
“I have something far more effective than a police report,” he says, voice soft and cruel. “I have you.”
Fuck.
He’s not here because I broke the law.
He’s here because I broke him.
And now, he’s going to collect.