CHAPTER 10 - Emilia #2
"Nothing," she muses, her voice far too innocent.
Sienna snorts. "She’s lying."
"Obviously," I deadpan.
Camila grins. "Okay, fine. I just think it’s funny."
I cross my arms. "What is?"
Her grin widens.
"That you’re acting totally normal, like you’re just here shopping for books, like you’re not haunted by the very attractive, very brooding man you spent days nursing back to health."
Oh.
My stomach tightens.
My lips press into a firm line.
Sienna chuckles, flipping through her book. "She’s got a point."
I scowl. "No, she doesn’t."
"Denial is a powerful thing," Camila sighs dramatically.
I grit my teeth, feeling heat creep up my spine.
"He left," I say, forcing the words out like they don’t cut me.
Camila tilts her head.
"And yet, here you are," she muses. "Looking over your shoulder like he might walk in any second."
I freeze.
Because she’s not wrong.
And I hate that she’s not wrong.
I inhale deeply, forcing the air into my lungs.
This is why I didn’t want to come here.
This is why I should’ve stayed home.
Because now, I feel like I can’t breathe again.
That unease creeps back up my spine, settling in the hollow of my throat.
I glance toward the door again.
Still nothing.
Still no one.
And yet, my heart won’t settle.
My pulse won’t slow.
I swallow, my mouth suddenly dry.
"I have to go," I mutter.
Sienna blinks. "What?"
Camila straightens. "Wait, what?"
"I just—I don’t know."
I shake my head, grabbing my bag, moving toward the exit.
"I just need some air."
Camila frowns. "Em, are you—"
But I don’t let her finish.
Because suddenly, the bookstore feels too small.
The air feels too thick.
And I just need to get the hell out.
Now.
Camila pouts, but Sienna gives me a knowing look—the kind that says she won’t push, but she’s watching me.
"I’ll check in tomorrow," she says as we step outside.
I nod. "See you then."
Then, I turn down the street alone, heading toward my car.
And that’s when I feel it again.
Not just unease.
Something heavier.
I slow my steps, listening.
The feeling doesn’t go away.
If anything, it worsens.
My skin prickles as I step onto the sidewalk, the wind cold against my cheeks. I hear footsteps behind me—slow, deliberate.
I pick up my pace.
The sound matches mine.
A lump forms in my throat.
I turn a corner, heading toward my car. The streetlights above flicker, casting long shadows. I reach my door, fumbling for my keys, my breath coming too fast.
Then I see it.
A dark sedan. Parked across the street.
Engine running.
A silhouette inside, watching me.
My fingers freeze on the door handle.
This isn’t paranoia.
It’s real.
And suddenly, I know—I’m not alone.
I reach my car, slide inside, and lock the doors.
And then I drive.
But even as I leave the city behind, even as I head back toward the safety of the cabin, the feeling stays.
Like something isn’t over yet.
Like something is just beginning.
And for the first time in weeks—
I wonder if Rafe was right.
Maybe I don’t belong in his world.
But what if his world is coming for me anyway?
I tell myself it’s nothing.
That I’m just being paranoid.
That I’m still adjusting to being around people again, still trying to forget the man who walked away without looking back.
But then, I see it.
The car.
Trailing me.
Never too close. Never too far.
Just there.
Watching.
Waiting.
And that’s when I know—
This isn’t paranoia.
This is real.
I drive toward the cabin, taking twisting back roads, doubling back, checking my mirrors.
The headlights behind me don’t disappear.
I push the gas pedal down. Faster.
The car behind me speeds up.
Shit.
Not random. Not a mistake.
I take a sharp turn onto an old logging road, my tires kicking up gravel as I swerve onto the dirt path.
For a moment, I think I’ve lost them.
Then
Another set of headlights appears in front of me.
Blocking my path.
Fuck.
I slam the brakes.
The car behind me skids to a stop.
Trapped.
I reach for the knife strapped to my thigh just as doors swing open.
And then—
They come for me.
I don’t go down easy.
The second the first man lunges, I drive my knee up into his gut, twisting my knife free and slashing out.
He grunts, stumbles back—blood blossoming across his forearm.
A second man grabs me.
I whip around, blade flashing—
But then—
A third man slams into me from behind.
A sharp pain explodes at the back of my skull.
The world tilts.
My vision flickers.
A voice—deep, smooth—cuts through the ringing in my ears.
"Didn’t expect this one to fight so hard."
A different voice—cold, detached.
"Diego won’t mind a few bruises."
Before I can react—
Before I can scream—
Everything goes black.
Pain is the first thing I register.
A slow, dull throb at the back of my skull, a sting at my temple where I must have hit the ground.
I blink, my vision swimming, the world coming into focus.
And then I realize—
I’m tied to a chair.
Fuck.
I twist my wrists, testing the rope. Tight. Secure.
The room around me is dimly lit, with concrete walls and the faint stench of cigarette smoke and something metallic.
Not just a room.
A prison.
And I know—without a doubt—where I am.
HELL.
I scream for help, but no one is there.