The hallway is mercifully empty. No Tiffany, with her extensions and her judgment. Just the hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of microwaved ramen that permanently haunts this floor.
I slip inside and lean against the door.
Waffles whimpers, and I unzip my hoodie carefully, letting him tumble onto my unmade bed. He immediately burrows into the pile of clean laundry I was supposed to fold three days ago, his one good eye blinking up at me, checking to make sure I’m still here.
“Yeah, buddy,” I whisper, sinking down beside him. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I pull the IOU card from my pocket and stare at it.
Red-backed playing card. Slightly creased. Three letters in black marker that might as well spell out my death sentence.
How long has he been watching me? Days, maybe. Weeks, more likely. The thought makes my skin crawl — all those late-night study sessions in the library, the coffee runs, every moment I thought I was invisible and rebuilding my life one careful step at a time. He was there, calculating, waiting, and I never once felt it.
My phone buzzes with a text.
You’re bleeding on your sheets.
I drop the phone.
He’s not here. This is the fourth floor of a secured building with keycard access and?—
Another buzz.
Answer your door.
No.
Absolutely not.
I am not answering my door at two a.m. for the man who just cornered me in an alley. I don’t care if he’s standing in the hallway with a first aid kit and a marriage proposal?—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Waffles’s ears perk up. He lets out a tiny, questioning whine.
“Shh,” I breathe, pressing a finger to my lips.
“Tessa.” His voice is barely above a murmur. “Open the door.”
“Go away.”
“No.”
“I’ll scream.”
“You won’t.”
He’s right. I won’t. Because screaming means explaining, and explaining means admitting what I did tonight.
I look down at my arm. The glass cut runs about three inches along my forearm—not deep enough for stitches, but deeper than I initially thought. It throbs with each heartbeat, a steady reminder of how spectacularly I’ve screwed up.
“Tessa.”
His voice carries a different note this time. Softer. Almost... concerned?
No. That’s impossible. Rowan King doesn’t do concern. He does strategy. Cold, calculated moves that leave you wondering how you ended up exactly where he wanted you.
But still, something in his tone makes me hesitate.
