The streetlights catch the deep pepper in his hair. The shadows cling to the brutal lines of his face.
"Take the Stevenson, Priya. Or I will follow you home to make sure you do."
The threat is not empty. It is a promise.
He turns and walks away, melting into the shadows. The darkness swallows him whole, leaving only salt, iron, and sun-baked earth on the cold air.
My hand shakes. The keys rattle against my palm.
I don’t walk to my car. I march.
The fury is hot and bright. A stalker. A highly trained, tattooed, terrifying stalker who knows my name and my security system. I slam the car door shut. The locks engage with a sharp clack.
My hands grip the steering wheel.
I'm a physical therapist. I rebuild things. I follow protocols. I don't deal with shadow men who smell like war and tell me which highway to take.
The engine roars to life.
I pull away from the curb. My eyes dart to the rearview mirror.
The street is empty. The shadows are just shadows.
But the weight remains. The heavy anchor of his focus is still sitting squarely on my shoulders.
I flick my turn signal on.
I merge onto the Stevenson Expressway.
Dammit.
He won the first round. But if Nico thinks I’m just going to roll over and let some stranger dictate my life, he picked the wrong woman to watch.
The highway stretches out before me. The city lights blur into streaks of red and white.
My clinic is my sanctuary. My life is my own. I rebuilt it from the ashes, and I will not let a man in shadows drag me back into the fire.
The heat of his gaze still burns against my skin.
The heater in the car blasts, but it can’t chase away the phantom scent of salt, iron, and sun-baked earth.
He stopped watching the building.
He started watching me.
The realization clicks into place as I speed down the highway. The mafia firebomb next door was the catalyst for my rigid, controlled life. Now, the danger has evolved. It is no longer a faceless explosion in the night.
Danger has a name.
Danger has a face.
Danger told me to take the expressway.
My foot presses harder on the gas pedal. The engine whines in protest.
I will go to the clinic tomorrow. I will treat my patients. I will lock my doors. I will maintain my structure.
But deep down, beneath the sassy comebacks and bright colors, a terrifying truth takes root.
