Lyra
I don’t wait for him to move.
He’s blocking the door like he owns the building, like his six-foot-something frame gets to decide who comes and goes. But this is my apartment. My threshold. My rules.
“Please stand aside.” Fighting my so-very-real attraction, I force my gaze away from his face. His mouth, his lips, are far too damn tempting. I’ve already succumbed to his masculine advances one. “Unless you want me to make a scene?”
He lifts his eyebrows slightly. “I doubt you’d like the kind of attention that brings.”
I flash him a dazzling smile. He’s absolutely right, and he knows it. But since he recognizes the danger around us, he’s no more excited to draw attention to our scene than I am. “Neither would you.”
He studies me, eyes unreadable. “Don’t count on it. At this point I’m ready to sling you over my shoulder and carry your ass to a safe house.”
My heart skips a beat.
I believe him.
Still, after a moment, he unfolds his arms. That’s the opening I was looking for.
I shoulder past him, slipping my key into the lock, and letting myself inside.
Focused, I dash to the bedroom and slam the door behind me before turning the lock with a decisive twist.
The action won’t keep him out.
But all I need is to buy myself a few, precious seconds.
I drop to my knees beside the baseboard.
Despite the fact I’m shaking, my fingers find the almost-invisible seam. Then I pop it loose. Behind it is the tiny safe, and I key in the code.
Click.
The lock disengages.
I fish out the fireproof box and flip it open. Inside is the ceramic fob my dad stashed in my bug-out bag.
The small disk goes in my duffel, shoved between layers of clothes and sealed with the zipper before the door rattles hard behind me.
“Allie.” Stryker’s voice is a low threat.
Satisfied that I’ve won, I straighten, duffel in hand.
The lock breaks with a snap of pressure. He forces the door open and stands in the threshold, legs spread wide.
There’s no expression of surprise on his face. “Did you get what you need?”
“None of your business.”
The words come out sharper than I mean them to, but I’m too keyed up to care.
He glances down at the bag in my hand, then up at my face. His gaze lingers. Not soft. Not cruel. Just unrelenting. “So where are you going now?”
I bring up my chin. “Again, none of your business.”
For a second, he studies me without responding. Then he quirks an eyebrow in a bossy, irritating manner. “You’re not going alone.”
The man is as annoying as fuck. “I didn’t ask for your help.”
