Another knock comes from my door.
Then another.
It's loud.
Then louder.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
I nearly jump out of my skin. I look at the clock. It's 1:47 AM.
"Jesus," I say, grabbing a worn t-shirt from the floor and yanking it over my head. It barely covers my ass, but whoever's banging like they're trying to break my door down isn't giving me time for pants.
I march to the door and grab the small blade I keep near the entryway, tucking it against my wrist.
I peer through the peephole.
There he is.
Declan Killaney in my fucking hallway. Outside my door.
My stomach drops. I consider not answering, but he'll just keep pounding until my neighbors call the cops. And cops are the last thing I need.
I unlock the door and yank it open, making sure to keep my body partly hidden behind it.
"What the fuck are you doing here?" I demand.
He doesn't answer, just walks right past me like he's been invited inside.
He stops in the middle of my living room and I see his eyes scanning every corner of my shitty apartment.
"You really live here?" he asks, his voice holding a hint of surprise, like he can't believe anyone would choose this.
I shift, painfully aware of my bare legs and the knife still hidden in my palm. "Don't worry about me. Why are you here? How did you even find me?"
He turns toward me slowly. "When I want something, I get it. Come on, you know how men like me work."
The words hit like a slap. I know exactly how men like him work. I've spent over a decade being owned by men like him.
"Yeah, I do. You're all pieces of shit. Now get the fuck out." My voice doesn't waver.
He ignores me completely, running a finger along my countertop. "Trust me, I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to. This part of the city..." He makes a disgusted face, nose wrinkling like he can smell the poverty. "Smells like wet dog and bad decisions."
"You have such a way with words," I say, gripping my blade.
"I heard something tonight. Something interesting. How you got free from the Albanians."
I shrug, keeping my expression neutral. "And?"
"Well, first of all, you're welcome," he says, smiling. "We weakened them here. Drove them out. So they abandoned their assets."
Something hot and bitter rises in my throat. The arrogance, the entitlement, it's so familiar it makes my skin crawl. He thinks he freed me? That I should be grateful to him?
Even if the Killaneys' war with the Albanians did weaken them enough that they were willing to accept my money when I finally had enough saved, fuck him. He doesn't get credit for my freedom, not when I paid for it with eleven years of trauma.
I cross my arms tightly over my chest. "I don't owe you shit. I bought out my own contract. I freed myself. No one helped me."
He lifts a brow like he doesn't believe me. I don't care.
