Chapter One #3
Because when he touched her… When his hands were on what is mine… Something in me snapped so fast I barely heard the rest of the room.
I was ready to end him. Not with theatrics, with noise. Just a clean, quiet correction for crossing a line he never should have come near.
But she looked at me, shaken, wide eyed. And for a second, that mattered more than punishing him.
So I follow her home.
Far enough back that she won’t notice. Close enough that nothing else will touch her tonight. She walks fast, shoulders tight, jacket pulled around her, I can see she’s trying to disappear. Every few steps she glances over her shoulder, like she expects another hand to grab her.
She’s rattled, really rattled.
And I’m not good with emotions, but even I can see it. She’s been through shit. Real shit. The kind that teaches you to flinch before you even realize you’re doing it.
The fear in her eyes when that prick grabbed her… That wasn’t new fear, that was memory.
And it makes something cold settle in my chest.
He hurt her, someone else hurt her before him.
People have taken from her, ignored her no, pushed past her boundaries like she’s something they can use.
And I can’t fucking stand it.
I stay in the shadows as she reaches her building, watching her fumble with her keys, watching her shoulders finally sag when she gets inside.
She’s safe now, for tonight.
But the thought of that man’s hands on her… The thought of anyone thinking they can touch her…
It sits in me, twisting and turning into something ugly, a blade.
And I’m not done with him. Not by a long shot.
I will leave his hands some place that his parents can find them, and other little pieces of him, just enough that no one will ever figure out who he is.
Mara
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The door clicks shut behind me and I lock it instantly.
Once.
Twice.
A third time, just to hear the deadbolt slide home.
My hands won’t stop shaking.
I press my back to the door and try to breathe, but the air feels too thin, like the whole apartment is holding its breath with me. The silence is loud. My pulse is louder.
“Fuck…” It comes out as a whisper, barely a sound at all.
I push off the door and stumble into the kitchen, flicking on the light. The brightness is harsh, too sharp, it’s exposing every crack in me. I drop my keys on the counter and they clatter louder than they should. I wince.
I grab a glass, fill it with water, spill half of it because my hands won’t steady. I drink anyway, gulping it down, hoping that the water will wash away what happened, it doesn’t.
My reflection catches in the microwave door. I look wrecked. Eyes wide. Makeup smudged. Clothes rumpled from where he grabbed me.
And behind all of that, the fear. The kind I thought I’d buried years ago.
I grip the counter until my knuckles ache.
He saved me. That stranger. That man with the dark eyes and the tattoos and the presence that felt like a fucking storm breaking open.
But the way he looked at me… The way he stood there, silent, watching… It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t casual.
It felt like he knew me.
As if he’d been waiting, like he’d been there before.
My stomach twists.
Was it him in the alley last week? The footsteps behind me in the stairwell? The feeling of eyes on me when I swore I was alone?
I shake my head hard, trying to dislodge the thought. I’m tired, I’m rattled, I’m imagining things.
I walk to the living room and sink onto the couch, pulling my knees up to my chest. My jacket is still wrapped tight around me, like I’m afraid to take it off. Maybe I am.
Every sound outside makes me flinch. Every car door. Every voice. Every footstep.
I hate this. I hate this feeling.
I close my eyes and try to breathe, but all I can see is his face. The way he looked at me. The way he didn’t say a word. The way he walked away like he’d already decided something.
I don’t know him. I don’t know what he wants. I don’t know why he was there.
But I know one thing.
Tonight didn’t end when I walked through my front door. It followed me inside.
I try to sleep. God knows I try.
I change into something comfortable, wash my face, crawl into bed, pull the duvet up to my chin like that will somehow keep the world out. The room is dark, quiet, familiar. It should feel safe.
It doesn’t.
My body won’t settle, my mind won’t shut up.
Every time I close my eyes, I see that guy’s hands on me, I feel the shove, the grip, the way my stomach dropped when I realized I couldn’t move.
My chest tightens and I force myself to breathe, but it comes out shaky, uneven.
I flip onto my side, then my back, my stomach, nothing helps.
My sheets feel wrong, my skin feels too tight, my heartbeat is too loud. I keep hearing echoes of the club the music, the shouting, the sound of someone hitting the wall.
His body hitting the wall.
And then him, the stranger, the man with the dark gaze, the tattoos and the presence that felt like a fucking shadow stepping into the light.
I can still feel the weight of his stare on my skin. I can still smell him smoke, cedar, heat clinging to me. I can still see the way he looked at me, silent, intense, like he knew me, anyone would have thought he’d been there before.
I shove the duvet off, suddenly too hot.
I sit up, run both hands through my hair, and stare at the dark corner of my room like something might be hiding there. I hate that I’m doing this, that I’m scared in my own fucking bed. I hate that one asshole can undo years of pretending I’m fine.
I lie back down, force my eyes shut, but sleep doesn’t come.
Every sound outside makes me flinch, every creak in the building makes my pulse spike. Every shadow is a threat.
I tell myself I’m being dramatic, I tell myself I’m safe, I tell myself he’s gone.
But the truth is louder than all of that.
I don’t feel safe. Not even a little. And the worst part is… I don’t know if it’s because of the man who grabbed me.
Or the man who saved me.
Because somewhere deep in my chest, beneath the fear and the exhaustion, something else is twisting.