Chapter 11
The Glock’s blast slammed against the walls. The sound ricocheted through Tori’s skull. Cordite burned her nostrils. The sharp, metallic scent she’d only encountered during target practice.
The bullet had gone wide. High and right. The framed botanical print above her dresser had exploded in a shower of glass, leaving a spiderweb of cracks radiating from the entry point.
Where was he?
She crouched, gun held close to her chest. She peeked over her mattress and saw the empty window frame. Window raised. Screen in shredded strips. The metal mesh twisted like surgical gauze after a messy procedure.
Gone. Whoever he was. Swallowed by the darkness beyond her bedroom wall.
She didn’t pursue. Her hands shook as she kept the gun trained on the empty window frame, finger still on the trigger. Blood dripped from her forearm onto the hardwood floor in steady drops that sounded like a metronome in the sudden silence.
Her head snapped side to side, looking at the wreckage. Sheets snarled on the floor, streaked dark with her blood. The nightstand lay on its face. Jagged shards from the broken frame glittered across the carpet, sharp enough to cut bare skin.
Leaves rustled in the hedge outside the open window. Tori jerked back, the crook of her leg slamming into the bedpost. She dropped onto the floor, tailbone jolted. She scrambled backward into her bedroom closet, yanking the door shut behind her.
She shoved herself into the narrow gap between dresses and storage bins, knees hauled tight to her chest. The dark pressed in, laced with the sweet trace of vanilla. Jasmine. Then spoiled by the tang of her own blood.
Her Glock dug cold against her sternum. Her grip rattled. The weight of her weapon dragged at her hands, an anchor she couldn’t put down. Air scraped through her throat in ragged bursts, loud inside the closet, impossible to swallow back.
Four years old again. Hiding from monsters.
A memory crashed over her like a rogue wave. Another closet. Another night. The sound of her parents’ screams cut short. Footsteps in the hallway. The metallic smell of blood seeping under the closet door.
The Glock trembled in her grip. Her hands shook so violently she couldn’t keep the barrel steady. One wrong twitch and she’d put a bullet through her own foot. Or worse.
She couldn’t hold it like this. Not safely.
But what if he came back? Through that gaping window. Through the torn screen that hung like dead skin from the frame.
She forced herself to lower her hand. The gun settled onto the closet floor with a soft thud against the carpet. She kept her palm pressed flat against the polymer frame.
Think. Process. What came next?
Call Blade. Obviously.
Phone. Where was her phone?
On the nightstand.
The overturned nightstand. Back in her bedroom, where glass covered everything and blood stained the hardwood. Maybe even kicked under the bed during the struggle. To reach her phone, she’d have to crawl through the wreckage. Straight into the sightline of that yawning window he’d vanished through.
Her throat constricted. He’d mapped every corner of her house now. The distance from her bed to the bathroom. The angle of approach from the window to where she slept. How long it took her to reach the closet. All the intelligence he needed for next time.
Because there would be a next time.
The Glock’s textured grip pressed into her palm. Solid. Real. The only barrier between her and whatever waited beyond this closet door.
Okay, no phone. Now what?
Her smartwatch. The face glowed blue against her wrist, cutting through the closet’s darkness like a lifeline. She lifted her palm from the Glock’s grip. Her thumb found the side key. One press. Two. Three. The watch beeped and vibrated against her wrist like a heartbeat of hope.
She swiped to activate the SOS feature she’d programmed but never imagined using. The watch pulsed again, confirming the distress signal had transmitted. GPS coordinates, emergency contact alerts, everything automated now. Help would come. She just had to stay alive long enough for it to arrive.
The blood dripped steadily onto the beige carpet beneath her feet. Each drop soaked into the fibers, creating a permanent stain that would never come out, no matter how much she scrubbed.
Great. Now she’d have to replace the whole closet carpet.
Tori reached behind her, fingers searching through the hanging clothes until she found an old gym shirt. Cotton. Soft from a hundred washes. She pulled it free from the hanger and wrapped it around her forearm, applying pressure to the knife wound.
The bleeding slowed. The cut wasn’t deep enough for stitches. Just a clean slice across the muscle that would heal in a week or two. But deep enough to remind her how close that knife had come to something vital. An artery. A tendon. Her throat.
She should have listened to Blade last year when he’d suggested extending the hardwood flooring into the closet during her bedroom renovation.
“You’ll thank me later,” he’d said, standing in her doorway with his arms crossed, watching the contractors lay the new planks. “Carpet’s a pain to maintain.”
Now she’d have to rip out the bloodstained carpet and pray she could find matching hardwood. The original flooring had been discontinued six months after installation. Of course it had.
Time moved like molasses. Each second stretched into minutes. She counted her heartbeats. Focused on breathing. In through her nose. Out through her mouth. The way Stryker had taught her during those early days at the gym when panic attacks had ambushed her without warning.
The front door burst open.
Heavy footsteps thundered across her hardwood floors. Multiple sets. Controlled movements. Professional. Cops clearing a house.
“Clear!”
“Bedroom clear!”
“Kitchen clear!”
“Tori!” Blade’s voice boomed through the noise. “Tori! Where are you?”
She opened her mouth to answer. Nothing came out. Five seconds ago, she was worried about the carpet, and now . . . Now she couldn’t speak. Her throat had locked completely. Words trapped somewhere between her brain and her vocal cords. Watching shadows move under the door.
Stay silent. Stay hidden.
The rational part of her screamed that these were the good guys. Blade was here. Help had arrived. But she pressed deeper into the corner, making herself smaller. Invisible.
“Bathroom clear!”
“Living room clear!”
Footsteps approached her bedroom. “Tori, it’s me.”
Blade.
She couldn’t hear his movements. Probably going slow, checking behind furniture, under the bed. Looking for threats. Looking for her.
“If you can hear me, you’re safe now. We’re here.”
His voice was closer. Right outside the closet door. She could see the bedroom light flick on through the crack where the door didn’t quite meet the frame.
All she had to do was speak. Say his name. Reach out and push the door open.
Her hand remained frozen on the gun. Her voice stayed buried.
The closet door creaked open. Light spilled across her face, forcing her to squint against the sudden brightness. Blade stood silhouetted in the doorway, his massive frame blocking most of the bedroom light behind him.
She must be a sight. Crumpled in the corner like discarded laundry. Gun on the floor. Blood-soaked shirt wrapped around her arm. Eyes wide and glassy with shock.
But Blade didn’t speak. Didn’t ask if she was okay or demand an explanation. Just snapped his weapon into place and sank to the floor beside her.
The dam broke.
Relief crashed over her like a tsunami, washing away every defense she’d built.
The sobs came from somewhere deep inside.
Ugly, wrenching sounds that she hadn’t heard herself make since she was a child.
Her body shook with the force of them. Tears streamed down her cheeks, mixing with snot that she couldn’t control.
His arm came around her, pulling her closer. Not romantic or possessive. Just shelter. His hand rested on her shoulder, thumb moving in circles against her collarbone.
She surrendered. Let her head fall against his shoulder.
The cotton of his shirt was soft against her cheek, warm from his body heat.
He smelled like coffee and the faint trace of his cologne.
He simply existed beside her, solid and unmoving as a mountain.
And in the quiet safety of his presence, she let herself fall apart.
Blade still didn’t speak. Didn’t try to fix anything or offer empty reassurances. His heartbeat thrummed steady beneath her cheek. Each beat sent heat through her bloodstream and made her hyperaware of his arm around her shoulders.
The crying continued. She told herself to stop. Get control. Act like the professional she was supposed to be. But her body refused to cooperate. The fear and adrenaline had to go somewhere, and tears were the only outlet available.
A uniformed officer’s head appeared in the doorway, took in the scene, and immediately withdrew. The bedroom door clicked shut, leaving them alone in their cocoon of darkness.
Her eyes felt swollen. Puffy. The sniffling wasn’t holding back anything anymore. She wiped her nose on the bloodstained shirt wrapped around her arm and let out a shaky laugh.
“Great. Now I got snot all over my evidence.”
Blade’s shoulders lifted with quiet laughter. “I never liked that shirt anyway.”
His voice was gentler than usual. Missing the sharp edge of his classic sarcasm. Worry threaded through every word.
“Plus, I’m gonna have to replace this whole carpet now.” She gestured weakly at the bloodstains beneath them. “You know how hard it is to find matching hardwood? The original stuff was discontinued.”
“We’ll figure it out.” He squeezed her shoulder. “Maybe go with something easier to clean next time. Tile. Vinyl. Something that doesn’t show blood.”
“You suggesting I’m gonna make a habit of bleeding in my closet?”
“With your track record? Probably smart to plan ahead.”
The banter steadied her breathing. Grounded her in something normal. Something that felt like home.