Chapter 4
Suddenly, the hair on the back of my neck prickled straight up.
I froze in the mouth of a narrow alleyway, breath catching sharp in my throat. My footsteps fell silent – but for a heartbeat, I swore I heard the faint, gritty scrape of another pair of soles dragging over wet tarmac just a few yards behind me.
I spun fast, eyes scanning the thick, clinging fog.
Nothing but empty street. Mist hung still between the stone buildings. Not a soul in sight. Just a quiet, sleeping town.
You’re losing it, Danika, I told myself fiercely, heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. Don’t let old ghosts turn shadows into monsters.
I turned back, lengthening my stride, slipping both hands deep into my coat pockets.
My fingers curled tight instantly around the heavy cold canister of pepper spray I kept stashed there.
Father always said running never saved anyone – that his reach stretched further than I could ever outrun.
Ever since I fled London, that fear had dogged my heels.
But lately, here in this quiet corner, I’d started to let my guard slip. Started to feel safe.
Now? That safety felt thin as tissue.
I turned down the twisting lane leading home, buildings crowding closer overhead, streetlamps barely cutting through the gloom. Fog swirled thick around my ankles like smoke.
Then I heard it again.
A sharp, distinct snap, like a twig breaking right beside me. Not a cat. Not a fox. Too heavy. Too deliberate. The muffled footfall of someone matching my pace step for step in the dark.
Cold panic flooded my veins – but beneath it, hard, sharp resolve burned right through.
I gripped the spray until my knuckles ached.
I wasn’t that scared little girl anymore.
If one of my father’s hired goons finally caught up, I’d make them bleed before they laid a hand on me.
I’d sworn it the night I climbed out that window: I’d never let anyone drag me back to be paraded at galas, traded off like some prize, no matter what the cost.
I didn’t run. Running made you prey. I kept my pace steady; eyes locked on the faint glow of my front gate just fifty yards ahead.
Almost there, I told myself, knuckles biting into my palms.
I reached the iron gate, paused, fumbling slow for my keys. Used the faint reflection in the glass panel of the front door to glance back over my shoulder into the mist.
For one heart-stopping second, the fog parted just enough.
A tall, still silhouette stood beneath the gnarled old oak across the road. Dressed in a long, dark tailored coat. Just watching. Not moving. Not breathing.
A gasp tore out of me. I flew through the gate, fumbled the lock open, slammed the door hard behind me and shot the deadbolt home, pressing my back to the solid wood until my heart slowed its wild hammering.
I crept to the window, pulled the heavy velvet curtain back barely a millimetre.
The lane was empty. The shadow beneath the oak was gone, swallowed whole by the rolling mist.
I let the curtain fall, hands shaking as I stumbled into my tiny kitchen to put the kettle on.
Tried to tell myself it was just my imagination, just the stress of talking to Rage today finally catching up.
But deep down I knew better. Someone was out there.
Someone was waiting for the perfect moment to make their move.
As I stood in the quiet dark, listening to the kettle rattle, my mind drifted straight to the man with the Rage patch on his cut.
For weeks I’d seen him as something to avoid – dangerous, from a world I needed to stay far away from.
But tonight? With ghosts from my past haunting my own street, that outlaw was the only person I wanted to see.
Thursday couldn’t come fast enough.
The steady tick of the kitchen clock felt loud enough to burst my skull. It was only Wednesday. And I hadn’t left the house all day.
The cottage felt freezing cold, the damp biting right through the brickwork, but I hadn’t bothered turning the heating on. I just sat wrapped in a huge wool blanket, perched on the arm of my worn armchair, staring out through the thin gap in the curtains down into the rain-soaked lane.
I’d been there six hours straight. Just watching. Just waiting.
Outside, the town moved at its usual slow, sleepy pace. The great oak across the road dripped steadily onto the pavement. No dark figure stood beneath its branches. No tailored coat. Nothing but empty tarmac.
I let out a shaky, ragged breath, rubbing gritty tired eyes with my palms. A deep, hollow ache throbbed behind my temples.
I’d barely slept a wink all night. Every tiny creak of the house, every rattle of wind, every passing car made me jump straight upright, heart racing, hand reaching automatically for the spray tucked under my pillow.
Now that daylight was here, the fear felt foolish.
You’re losing your mind, Danika, I whispered into the quiet, my voice thin and fragile. You’re losing it.
I leaned my head back against the cushion, staring up at the water-stained ceiling.
Human beings aren’t built to be caged for too long.
For nineteen years he’d controlled every breath I took, every word I spoke, every move I made or made sure I didn’t exist, forgetting I was even there.
Breaking free had been the most incredible feeling of my life – but it had left me with one cruel price: I was constantly looking over my shoulder.
For months I’d waited for the other shoe to drop. Expected black cars to pull up, sharp-suited men to hand me papers, to drag me kicking and screaming back to London. I would’ve gone down fighting.
Was it really so impossible to believe my mind was just playing tricks?
I pulled the blanket tighter around my shoulders, a bitter laugh catching in my throat.
This was textbook paranoia. It was far more likely I’d seen some guy walking home from the pub, or a delivery driver checking directions – that or my own brain had turned some total stranger into the monster I was most afraid of.
Wrong place. Wrong time. Coincidence.
Pull yourself together, I muttered, throwing the blanket off and forcing stiff legs to hold my weight.
I padded through to the kitchen, determined to shake this off.
Filled the kettle, switched it on, and let the familiar sounds ground me.
The smell of fresh coffee, the hiss of the machine, the money in my pocket from the shop, that paid for this roof – that was real.
I couldn’t lose my job just because I was too scared to walk out my own front door.
I reached up into the cupboard for a mug, and my fingers brushed against that chipped little espresso cup I’d brought home ages ago, the one with the broken handle I’d been meaning to throw out but never could.
Instantly my thoughts shifted, spiralling straight back to him.
A soft, warm flush crept up my neck and flooded my cheeks. It was ridiculous how easily he could take over my head, even when he wasn’t anywhere near. I rested my forehead against the cool cabinet door, a helpless little smile tugging through the exhaustion.
Rage. If he saw me now, huddled here afraid of shadows, second-guessing my own eyes… he’d probably let out one of those low, rough rumbles of his. But he wouldn’t laugh at me. I knew he wouldn’t.
All day I’d tried convincing myself the Iron Angel was dangerous, someone to keep my distance from.
But standing here alone in my quiet cold kitchen, he was the only thing that felt solid.
That felt real. He might look brutal, might be feared by everyone else…
but he’d been nothing but honest with me.
I poured boiling water over my tea bag, watching the dark amber swirl through the mug.
“Tomorrow,” I told myself firmly. “Tomorrow’s Thursday. You go to work. You make the coffee. You apologise for taking today off. And at twelve o’clock sharp… you give that big man his espresso.”
I wandered back to the living room, but this time I didn’t sit by the window. I pulled the velvet curtains fully closed, blocking out the grey sky and the empty lane. I’d run away to escape being ruled by ghosts from London – I wasn’t about to let new ones run my life now.
I curled up on the sofa with my tea, letting the warmth seep slowly into my hands. I had no idea that down the lane, just past the old stone bridge, a dark figure in a charcoal trench coat was already fading silently into the evening shadows.