He steps off the curb.
The combat boots he wears make no sound on the pavement. A man that size should make noise. He should thunder. He should crack the concrete. Instead, he glides. It’s a terrifying, predatory grace.
He crosses the centerline of the street.
My flight instinct finally kicks in. The alarm bells in my head shriek. My hand tightens around my keys. The serrated edge of my house key digs into my palm, a tiny focal point of pain to keep my mind sharp.
Running is a bad idea. Running triggers the chase.
I plant my feet.
He steps up onto my side of the sidewalk.
His physical mass blots out the streetlights. He eclipses the wind. The temperature spikes.
He stops exactly three feet away. It’s close enough to be a threat, but just far enough away to keep me from swinging my keys at his throat. He knows what he is doing. He is mapping the space.
A potent, unexpected scent washes over me.
Salt. Iron. Sun-baked earth.
It doesn't belong in Chicago. It doesn't belong in the freezing damp of an urban winter. It smells like a war zone in a desert. It smells like blood and heat and ancient things. The metallic tang of iron coats the back of my tongue.
My meticulously constructed armor splinters. The cracks spiderweb through my logic.
"You're out late."
His voice matches the rest of him. It is gravel and ruin. It is low, devoid of inflection, yet edged with command.
My eyebrows jump. A bark of disbelieving laughter pushes past my lips before I can stop it.
"You're standing in an abandoned doorway staring at a building in the dark, and you're lecturing me about my schedule?"
The words are sharp. Sassy. They are my defense mechanism. Humor and bite keep the terror at bay.
His eyes widen by a fraction of a millimeter. It is the only sign of surprise he allows. Most people probably apologize to this man. Most people probably stutter.
"I wasn't lecturing," he states flatly.
"Sounded like a lecture." I shift my weight to my left hip. The mustard cardigan peeks out from beneath my coat. "Sounded like a terrible opening line from a guy who forgot how to talk to civilians."
His gaze drops to my mouth, then drags slowly back up to my eyes. The visual sweep is heavy. It feels like a physical touch dragging over my skin.
"You own the clinic." It is a statement, not a question.
"I do."
"You work late on Thursdays."
The cold returns, slicing through the heat of his proximity.
"You've been watching my clinic." The keys in my hand shift. My thumb slides over the panic button on my car fob.
His eyes track the micro-movement of my hand. The plastic fob doesn't earn so much as a flicker.
"I was watching the building next to yours."
The hollowed-out shell. The mafia firebomb. The collateral damage.
