29. Wolfe
WOLFE
The footage looped again.
Three seconds.
Twelve frames.
One mistake.
The man entered from the blind spot just outside her stairwell. Black hoodie. Mask. Gloves. But he turned. Just enough. A slip in the way his shoulder twisted to push her door open. An angle that gave me what I needed.
Left-handed.
Five foot ten.
Close-cropped beard under the mask.
Military boots.
Clean. Efficient. Fast.
But not fast enough.
I watched it again. This time with the hallway audio unmuted. The audio was grainy. Distorted. Too far from the mic. But I heard it anyway.
The soft click of her boots on the floor. The way she paused near her door—keys in hand. She looked over her shoulder. I saw it in the angle of her spine. The hesitation. Like something in her gut said wrong .
She reached for the lock?—
And he was there. Fast. Brutal. A blur of black. She didn’t scream at first. She choked. Like the sound got caught behind fear and instinct.
Then—
“No— please — stop ? — ”
It was faint. But it was her. And I’d never forget that tone again.
My hand clenched the edge of the desk hard enough the wood bowed. My other curled into my thigh until the muscle locked. I should’ve been there. I should’ve never left her.
I watched it again.
Slower.
Frame by frame.
I saw the way she fought. The way she kicked. The way she bit his hand. He flinched. She got him. Just for a second. Right before he slammed her down.
I stopped the feed. Froze it on her. Collapsed. Hair fanned out. Knees tucked up. One hand half-raised like she was still trying to shield herself from something already done. I didn’t breathe. Didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Because if I did? I’d lose it.
The door creaked open in the footage. Her voice came faint and terrified—“no, no, please?—”
Then the struggle.
The impact.
The silence.
My fists clenched tighter. The playback window reflected her fall again. Over and over. And each time? Something inside me broke wider.
Then—
“Sir. ”
Mason’s voice cracked through the static in my chest.
I turned toward the monitor. His live feed flicked on. He didn’t say much. Didn’t need to. He stood in front of a man. Chained. Knees bent. Head down. Blood on his shirt. Eyes blackened. Lip split. Breathing like it hurt.
“I found him,” Mason said.
“You touch him?”
“Nope.”
He raised his hand. Showed clean knuckles.
“Like you asked. He’s all yours.”
I stared at the screen. At the man’s face.
Still bowed. Still too calm. But I recognized him now.
Not from the footage. From the way Cloe curled into herself.
From the sound in her voice that wasn’t fear—it was memory.
And I knew. This wasn’t just an intruder.
This was the past. The one Selene warned about. The one who never really left her.
And now?
He belonged to me.
I shut the monitor. Grabbed my coat. And drove.
The parking garage was mostly empty. Third level. Far corner. One single flickering light overhead. The kind of spot where secrets got buried. And men left limping—if they left at all.
Mason stood next to the chair. The man was slumped in it. Wrists tied behind him. One ankle already swelling. Blood drying on his temple. No mask now. No mystery. Just a mouth that had whispered the wrong words in the dark to a woman I’d already claimed.
I stepped closer. Mason didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He knew better.
The man lifted his head. His left eye was swollen nearly shut. The other fixed on me as I circled once. Just once. Slow.
“Comfortable?” I asked.
He didn’t respond.
So I pulled a folding chair from the wall and sat directly in front of him.
“I watched you put your hands on her,” I said.
My voice was calm.
Even.
But my fingers curled into fists slowly on my knees.
“You broke into her home.”
Still no reply.
“You grabbed her. Slammed her down. You didn’t take anything. You weren’t there for money.”
My eyes locked on his.
“So I’m going to ask once.”
“Who paid you?”
He snorted.
Tried to smile.
Split his lip open wider.
“Fuck you .”
I leaned forward.
Rested my elbows on my knees.
Let the silence stretch.
Then reached down and twisted his left pinky finger until it cracked with a snap .
He howled.
Mason didn’t flinch.
I didn’t blink.
“That was for the bruises.”
I moved to the next finger.
“This one’s for her lip.”
I already knew who he was.
Not just a stalker. Not just a threat.
He was the one Selene promised to unleash. The ex. The leash. The bastard who once called Cloe his and treated her like property.
The same motherfucker who left bruises on her ribs and panic in her voice.
This wasn’t about money. Wasn’t about random chance.
It was deliberate. Ordered. A message from Selene, signed in bone.
Crack .
He started breathing harder.
Sweat beading on his forehead.
“You think this is it?” I said. “You think pain is the part I have trouble with?”
I grabbed the back of his chair and pulled him an inch closer.
“Pain is the part I enjoy.”
He spat blood onto the floor.
Choked.
Then—
“She—she didn’t tell me her name?—”
My body went still.
“She called herself The Bitch —said the girl owed her.”
He was shaking now.
“Said—said don’t kill her. Just scare her.”
My jaw flexed.
His eyes widened.
“Please—she said just enough to make her run. Just a warning?—”
A sound cracked behind us.
Sharp.
Final.
Gunshot.
The man jerked. Then slumped. Dead weight. Mason reached for his gun—but I was already standing. Turning. Eyes wide.
There, across the garage?—
A figure in black. No face. No voice. Just a silhouette with a suppressed pistol still raised.
He nodded once. Then disappeared into the shadows. No footsteps. No sound. Just gone.
I stood in the quiet for a long time. Turned back toward the body. Still tied to the chair. Head tilted at an unnatural angle. Eyes open. Mouth slack. He died without ever knowing what was behind him. Or what he was about to say.
I crouched. Not because I wanted to examine the body—but because my legs were trembling and I didn’t want to sit. Blood had splattered across his shoulder. The scent of it hit like iron and sweat and something that would never quite wash out of my coat.
My knuckles were still bloodied from what I’d done earlier. Now they were shaking. Not with fear. With rage. Because the man didn’t die for what he’d done. He died to protect someone else. And I didn’t know who. Not yet. But I would.
Mason stepped forward and held out a towel. I didn’t take it. I stood. Wiped my hand across my jacket. And walked away. Not moving. Not breathing right. Because this wasn’t justice. It was a message. The man almost gave her up. And someone made sure he never got the chance to finish.
I didn’t speak the whole ride back. Didn’t turn on music. Didn’t wipe the blood off my knuckles. Just drove. Right hand on the wheel. Left curled in my lap like it was still holding the ghost of his throat.
The steering wheel felt hot beneath my palm. Not from sun. From grip. From the tension that had crept into my bones and refused to let go. Every red light felt like mockery. Every turn like a test .
I almost missed the exit once. Didn’t correct until the last second.
The tires screeched across the line and I didn’t care.
Her voice echoed in the car like it had been stitched into the leather.
Where are you taking me? The fuck out of here.
That answer hadn’t been for her. It had been for me.
Because if I’d stood in that apartment one second longer, I would’ve buried a body there.
I glanced down at my shirt. Sweat had dried into the collar. My fingers tapped the side of my thigh. Pulse still too fast. The chain she wore—the one I gave her—was still pressed between my teeth. Metaphorically. For now.
The air inside the car felt too still. Like even the leather didn’t want to rustle. My coat was still damp at the collar from sweat. My jaw still locked.
I flexed my fingers on the steering wheel, watched a line of dried blood crack at the base of my thumb.
I hadn’t expected the gunshot. Hadn’t expected the man in black.
But I wasn’t surprised. I’ve seen silence used as a weapon before.
I’ve seen threats that never speak. It’s not the ones who yell that make the first cut. It’s the ones who nod. Then vanish.
The man was dead.
But he didn’t matter anymore.
Because now?
I knew something bigger was moving behind him.
And whoever it was?—
They were protecting the wrong person.
I pulled onto the side street near my building. Engine still running. The wheel hot under my palm. The silence pressing in from all sides.
I should’ve gone upstairs. Should’ve kicked the door open just to see her eyes. But I didn’t. Because I wasn’t ready to see her lie to me again.
“I fell. ”
That’s what she said. Like it was a joke. Like I wouldn’t notice the bruise blooming across her cheekbone.
I hated that she lied. Not because it made her untrustworthy. Because it meant she didn’t believe I could handle the truth. That I couldn’t hold it. That I couldn’t hold her. She’d protected me.And I was supposed to be the one protecting her.
I slid my phone from my coat pocket with a hand still shaking.
Typed the message.
To: Royal
She okay?
Read receipt.
Typing .
Then—
She’s quiet.
Ate something.
Still won’t look me in the eye.
But she’s okay.
I stared at the screen.
Then typed again.
Paused.
Deleted it.
Typed another.
She’s not okay.
But she’s safe.
I didn’t send it.Didn’t need to.The words sat heavy in my chest like they’d been burned into the muscle. I sat in the car a little longer. Let the engine idle. Watched the entry camera on my phone flicker.
The feed from her hallway was quiet. Still. A dim yellow cast from the overhead bulb. Royal wouldn’t let anything happen to her. Not on his watch. But this wasn’t about trust. It was about presence. About knowing that if she screamed again, I’d hear it. This time, I’d get there in time.
I opened the message thread again.
Typed:
I’m outside.
Deleted it.
Typed another.
I’m not coming up unless you ask.
Deleted that too.
Because I knew she wouldn’t. And it wasn’t her job to reach for me. It was mine.
I sat back. Closed my eyes. And promised myself this wasn’t over. Not until the person who sent him knew exactly what it felt like to bleed for someone who never thanked them. Because safe wasn’t a feeling. It was a decision. And I’d already made it for her.