Chapter 13
Katherine
It was Saturday. Quiet. Safe.
Katherine lay curled on the couch, a blanket around her, fingers absently tapping against her mug as if silence alone might drown out the memory. The apartment was still, her body anything but.
She hadn’t meant for it to linger—but it did.
The taste of him.
The weight of the moment.
The fact that she’d done it at all.
She’d dropped to her knees like it was inevitable. Like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t made her burn in all the worst ways.
Her stomach turned—not with regret, but with something harder to name. Something tight and restless and completely unwelcome.
Then the doorbell rang.
She blinked. Froze.
She wasn’t expecting anyone. Blanket slipping off her shoulders, she crossed the room in silence, muscles taut.
Her heart pounded as she stared through the peephole at the imposing figure of Samuel Crawford on her doorstep. A cold sweat broke out across her skin as panic gripped her. How did he know where she lived? This couldn't be a coincidence.
She considered staying silent, letting the moment pass.
But Crawford wasn’t the kind of man you ignored—he was the kind who waited. Who outlasted. The measured knocks came again, slow and deliberate, like someone expecting to be granted entry.
Drawing a shaky breath, she willed her racing pulse to settle. She couldn't show fear, not to a man like him. With a steadying exhale, she reached for the lock and turned the handle, opening the door.
Crawford stood before her, the picture of polite patience.
His crisp suit and neatly knotted tie spoke of careful planning - this was no impromptu visit. His smile was empty, a warning wrapped in silk as his gaze met hers.
"Good evening, Miss Winters."
Her voice was cool, unreadable. "Mr. Crawford."
The man smiled, slow and leisurely, as if they had all the time in the world. "Miss Winters." His voice was pleasant, smooth as glass. And then— "I thought I'd drop something off."
He lifted a thin manila folder, and Kath's stomach twisted. Tension coiled sharp and sudden. The case file she’d requested. The one that should’ve come through email. The one he definitely shouldn’t be hand-delivering.
Crawford watched her, closely, as if he were waiting, as if he had already seen the move she was about to make. His head tilted, a fraction. "You ask interesting questions, Miss Winters."
She didn't blink. "I'm a lawyer. That's my job."
His smile deepened. "Of course."
Kath swallowed, keeping her voice even, measured, and suspicious, yet controlled. "Didn't realize the DA's office was in the business of home delivery."
Crawford chuckled softly, the sound indulgent, as if she amused him. "I happened to be in the area."
Liar. He wasn't in the area. He came here, on purpose. They both knew it.
She didn't call him on it. She didn't need to. Crawford tilted his head, his smile remaining polite, his voice smooth. But his next words weren't a request. "Aren't you going to invite me in?"
Her grip on the file tightened. The correct answer was no.
The smart answer was no. But the problem? He already knew she was afraid. And that meant she had already lost the upper hand.
Kath hesitated a second too long. And that was enough. Crawford didn't press. He didn't shift or move a muscle.
He waited. Not like a man seeking permission—but like one who already owned the space, simply giving her the illusion of choice.
Her breath was slow, steady. And then, she stepped aside.
Not an invitation, not an agreement, just an acceptance of the inevitable.
The man stepped inside, unrushed and comfortable, as if he had always been meant to be there. And just like that, she had lost the first battle.
She hated the way Crawford moved—slow, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world. Like this wasn't her space.
Like he didn't need to look around because he already knew everything he needed to.
What neighborhood she chose. How she lived. Where she felt safe.
Or rather, where she thought she was safe.
She realized it too late. That she was standing in her own home—and yet, somehow, he was the one who belonged here. The thought made her sick.
But she didn't let it show. She turned toward the kitchen, keeping her movements casual. Normal. A performance.
“Drink?” Her voice came clipped.
His smirk sharpened. Like he found it adorable.
"Look at you," he murmured. "Always so well-mannered."
Katherine’s face hardened, muscles tensing beneath the surface. It was a game, and a transparent one—every word a calculated prod, every glance a silent dare. He was testing her boundaries, savoring each second as he waited for the crack in her composure.
But surrender wasn't an option. Not now.
She turned, heading for the kitchen. One step. Then another. And behind her, Crawford watched. Like a wolf, entertained by the little lamb pretending it still had a choice.
Kath felt the air grow thinner as Crawford stepped closer.
Not too close—but just enough. Just enough to make her breath ragged, her body tensing.
He watched her, gaze clinical, like a scientist observing.
His voice was low, conversational. "You know, I admire determination."
Kath didn't move. Didn't shift. She refused to let her body betray her fear.
Crawford smiled, soft and almost pleasant. But his voice carried a sharp edge. "But I've found that, sometimes, ambition makes people careless."
Her pulse kicked up. This wasn't advice. It wasn't even a threat. It was a statement—a truth he'd seen play out before.
Exhaling slowly, she tilted her chin up, forcing herself to meet his gaze. Her words came steady, biting. "You must be an expert, then."
His smile never faded, but his eyes gleamed colder. "Careless people make mistakes, Miss Winters."
Kath felt the shift, the implicit danger behind his words.
Not all threats were loud. Some came with a smile, delivered in a stranger's living room—with no one to hear a scream.
He adjusted his coat with unhurried precision, as if they’d just concluded a pleasant conversation.
“I appreciate your time.”
And with that, he turned and walked out—unbothered, unhurried, leaving silence in his wake like smoke.
Kath watched as Crawford checked his watch, the motion smooth and relaxed.
As if this was just a routine visit. As if he didn't just walk into her home and lace the air with something cold, something suffocating.
As if he didn't just leave a veiled threat sitting between them, unspoken but perfectly understood.
He exhaled, slow and unbothered. "Well." His voice was light, amused. "I should let you get back to your evening."
Kath didn't move. Didn't nod. Didn't breathe. She just watched as he strolled to the door, no rush, no urgency. Because Crawford never hurried.
He opened the door, pausing to look back at her. And that was the worst part. That final glance. Like he owned this. Like he owned her. Like he'd already decided how this would end.
His voice dropped, soft as a whisper. "I'd hate to see you waste your potential."
And then—the door clicked shut behind him.
Silence enveloped Kath, and this time, she let it. Not because it brought comfort—but because it confirmed what she already knew. This wasn’t about a file. It never was.It was a message.
A warning. A reminder, delivered straight to her door in a perfectly tailored suit. And the worst part? It landed.
Right where he wanted it to.
Her fingers tightened around the folder's edges, her breath coming too fast, too shallow. She should be furious. Should be raging. But instead? She was scared. And she hated that most of all.
"Fuck." The word barely left her lips, a whisper, a confession. Crawford walked out the door. But the fear stayed behind.
Made itself comfortable. Like it planned to settle in.