Drawers have been yanked out, contents dumped in glittering piles: silverware tangled with receipts I should’ve burned, a shattered mug that once held my morning chai.
The fridge door hangs ajar, a carton of oat milk pooling on the tile. Even the potted succulent on the windowsill has been dumped over, its soil scattered like ashes.
Gun still leading, I edge toward the bathroom.
The mirror is shattered, with shards glinting like accusations on the floor.
I pause, scanning for movement, but it’s empty.
Then I move to the bedroom, easing through the open door. The mattress is flipped. The closet has been ransacked, leaving my clothes in heaps. I check every corner, every shadow. No one’s here.
Yet the air feels thick, watched, but my sweep is done. I reholster my gun, the weight of it settling against my hip.
Only then does the violation hit me. Like a punch to the gut. This wasn’t a burglary. It was a search. Methodical. Desperate. They tore through my life, layer by layer, hunting for what? The locket? The piece of vellum hidden inside?
My breath comes shallow, rage bubbling under the fear. This was my space. My illusion of safety. Now it’s stripped bare, exposed, just like me.
I move back toward the living room.
Then there’s a noise. Faint. Nothing more than a scuff from the living room.
Heart in my throat, I pull my gun out again, holding it in a two-handed grip. A tall, broad shadow shifts.
“Freeze!” My voice is steel, no tremor. I’ve practiced this.
The shadow steps into the light, hands raised casually, like he’s humoring me.
Stryker.
Goddamn him.
His dark eyes lock on mine, unflinching, even with the barrel pointed at his chest. He shows no fear. Just coiled calm, like he’s the one in control.
“What the hell?” I demand.
“You shouldn’t be here.” His voice is commanding, deep enough to vibrate through me.
I shouldn’t be here?
“This place isn’t safe.”
You’re the Patron Saint of the Fucking Obvious, Stryker.
I don’t lower the gun. “Why are you following me?”
He doesn’t answer right away, just scans the wreckage with a professional eye, taking in the destruction.
“Door was open, so I let myself in.” His gaze flicks to the gun, then back to my face, a hint of amusement in his unblinking eyes. “You can put that down, Allie. I’m not the enemy.”
He is. More than he can know.
After all, he’s with Hawkeye.
The word screams in my head. Dad’s stories flood back—the Hollingsworth heist, where he snatched the priceless jewels from under their noses. They’ve still never been recovered.
The loss humiliated them, costing Hawkeye millions of dollars in canceled contracts. Or so my dad claimed.
I mask my apprehension, all my nerves, behind a scowl as I force my voice to remain steady. “I’ve told you I don’t need your help.”
