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Nope. My eyes open wide. I’m not going to leave myself vulnerable to him.
But I’m so sleepy.
He wouldn’t hurt me. I can fall asleep, and he won’t hurt me. I have to believe that because my eyelids are suddenly too heavy to lift any longer.
22
Lucian
It’s like I’ve been granted a precious gift. Her trust, even if it’s tentative. Even if she’s not sure whether I deserve it. Something deep inside her, some wisdom, tells her what I already know to be true. That I wouldn’t hurt her for anything in the world. That she’s nothing but safe when we’re together.
Now that I know what it’s like to be without her, I won’t be making any more mistakes.
She’s peaceful now, her breathing slow and even. I can’t resist the desire to reach down and stroke her hair—gently, barely making contact for fear of waking her and ruining the moment. I’ve waited a week for this. No, I’ve waited my entire life for this. So I won’t fuck it up now.
Rowan. My precious Rowan. I don’t know how many more nights we’ll have to go through this little dance. Getting her to trust me, easing her into being close to me. Earning her one inch at a time. I’ll do whatever it takes.
It might be because I’m watching her, or it might be because I’m exhausted myself. This hasn’t exactly been a restful week. No matter the reason, my head feels heavier with each second until I let it fall back against the sofa cushions.
Which is when I hear the scratching.
I sit up, watchful, listening hard. It isn’t loud enough for Rowan to hear—she’s still asleep—but it’s not mice. That much I know. I can see the door from where we’re sitting, and I know it isn’t my imagination. The knob is moving ever so slightly like someone is trying to pick the lock and jiggling it as they do.
“Rowan.” I shake her gently, lifting her until she’s sitting up. She blinks hard, her head lolling a little. “You have to wake up.”
“What’s wrong?” I hold a finger to my lips before pulling her off the sofa and hurrying her across the room, then into her bedroom.
“Stay in here. Do you hear me? Don’t make a sound, and don’t come out until I say it’s okay.” I push her toward the closet and wait until she’s inside before creeping out of the room, back toward the front door.
I should let the bastard break in, whoever he is. Let him hear the screeching of the alarm, so he knows what a mistake he made. But no, the alarm isn’t set.
That’s fine. Whoever it is, I’d like to deal with them one-on-one without police presence.
The lock clicks. I wait, tensed, prepared to end the miserable son of a bitch. When the door opens and reveals who’s on the other side, I understand just how miserable he is.
I should’ve had them kill him when he threw a fit in my club.
Glen’s bent at the waist, looking in all directions as he creeps into the apartment. He closes the door behind him, then tiptoes into the living room while I watch from the shadows outside Rowan’s bedroom. There’s a telltale bulge in his back pocket. The folding blade he’s carrying.
Bile rises in my throat when I understand the sort of damage he planned to do to her tonight. I doubt he would’ve left her alive. When desire is thwarted, it becomes perversion.
When perversion is thwarted, it becomes deadly.
“Who are you looking for, Glen?”
He whirls around, mouth hanging open at the sound of my voice. “You? What are you doing here?”
“I was going to ask you the same question.” I step out of the shadows, then away from the bedroom. I want to keep him away from her. “You have no business here.”
“You don’t know that.”
“So, what? You have to break in? Is that part of the fun?” It sickens me since I’ve done something similar. Only I had no intention of harming her. I wasn’t trying to cut her up to make myself feel better.
He’s sweating already, eyes darting back and forth. “I only wanted to—”
“To what?” My voice cracks through the air like a whip. “I know what you wanted to do. We both know. Spare me the bullshit.” Suddenly, I look toward the door, and he does the same, turning his attention away from me.
And that’s when I strike.
I throw myself at him, and we both tumble to the floor between the living room and kitchen. His head hits the hard linoleum floor, and he grunts. I use the opportunity to straddle his chest, pinning his arms to the floor with my knees.
“What? You don’t like it when somebody else is in control?” I slam my fist against his face, relishing the blood that oozes from the split flesh over his cheekbone. “You’re not much of a man without your knives, are you?” Another blow, then another.
