The air smells faintly of leather and gun oil, and I feel a pang, as sharp as it is unwanted. We’re both running from something. But I shove down my unsettling insight and pace to the window to check the street below.
It’s empty for now, allowing me to exhale.
Stryker leans against the counter, arms crossed, assessing me.
He sees too damn much, and I don’t like it.
“Who trashes an apartment like that?” His voice is low, probing, like he’s picking a lock. “What’re they after?”
I force a shrug, my face a mask. “Wrong place, wrong time. Bad luck.” The lie slips out as smoothly as it always does, but my pulse spikes.
The fact my father stashed the locket and a fob inside my go bag before being brutally gunned down in his vehicle is something I won’t tell anyone.
Because the annoying man is going to keep pushing, I pivot, throwing a question back at him. “Why do you care?” I frown. “What’s in it for you?”
He doesn’t flinch, just tilts his head, a half smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t like bullies.” It’s vague, a dodge, but there’s a flicker in his gaze—curiosity, maybe, or something hotter. It makes my stomach twist, and not entirely from fear.
He moves to the kitchenette, pulling a tin of black tea from an otherwise-bare cabinet. “Something to drink?” As he asks, he’s already filling the kettle.
The gesture is small, practical, but it catches me off guard—too human for a man who moves like a weapon.
Even though I haven’t responded, he soon carries a mug toward me. The steam curls up, sharp with scent of bergamot.
His fingers brush mine as he hands it over, and a jolt shoots through me, electric, unwanted.
I jerk back, the tea sloshing, and his eyes narrow.
Did he feel it too?
“Thanks.” I retreat to the window again, sipping to cover the flush creeping up my neck.
The tea is bitter and grounding, but it does nothing to dull the awareness of him—his broad shoulders filling the space, the way his T-shirt clings to muscle, the quiet confidence that makes me want to both run and stay.
Get it together, Lyra.
I’m not some girl who melts for a guy who plays hero. I’m Allie, the ghost, the liar. But his gaze follows me, steady, like he’s reading every lie I’ve ever told.
“You’re good out there.” Voice quiet, he breaks the silence. “The market, the leg sweep. Not many can hold their own like that that.” His tone’s casual, but there’s respect in it, and it hits me deep, stirring something dangerous.
Since I’m not sure what to say, I face him and sip my tea.
“Lone wolf’s a tough gig.” His voice is low but inviting as he attempts to get to know me. “Even wolves need a pack sometimes.”
His scent—spicy, dangerous—wraps around me, and for a second, I imagine what it’d be like to lean into it, to let someone else carry the weight. But that’s not my life. Never will be.
I step back, breaking the spell, my mug clattering as I put it on a coffee table. “Just a bad day.”
He watches me, unblinking, like he’s piecing together a puzzle. Then he folds his massive arms. His voice drops to a velvet rumble that pins me in place. “Who are you, exactly, Allie?”
Chapter Five
Lyra
“Who am I?” I force a small laugh, the kind that shatters the tension his question leaves hanging heavy in the air between us. “An overworked graphic designer with a deadline looming and a string of bad luck this morning. That’s the whole story, Stryker.”
The words slip out easy enough, practiced from years of dodging questions, but inside, my nerves are twisting tight, knotting up like old rope.
Dad’s voice echoes in the back of my mind: Keep them guessing, Lyra. Never let them get too close. More than ever, I have to remember this.
