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Saying that Iranhome isn’t an exaggeration. Notreally. Not when I can still feel Cyril’s hand around my throat and Arlo’s warm weight against my back. And especially not since I can feel the burn of the tattoo on the back of my neck.
One that I didn’taskfor.
I don’t want to be a part of their little gang. TheLost Boys, as Cyril had called them. And I don’t want to beownedby anyone. At least not by a group of psychos like them. Because that’s what they are. Absolutely fucking psychotic.
Unlocking the door of my studio apartment, I sigh as I let myself in, wondering if I’m going to get a migraine thanks to all of this. Stress is not my friend, and I’m just waiting for my body to knock me in the kneecaps while I’m down. Literally, probably, rather than figuratively.
My apartment is dark, which isn’t surprising since I normally forget to leave a light on for myself. I keep saying I’ll get a nightlight for the outlet by the door, but so far, I haven’t gone down that route. Instead, I operate by feel and by the flash of lightning that burns into my eyes from the windows on the far side of the room.
Finally, I find the kitchen light switch with my left hand, flicking it on quickly and doing a quick check around the dimly lit apartment to make sure everything is in its place.
And it is…until it isn’t. Until something tickles at my brain that it’snot right.
It takes me three more sweeps of the area to realize what it is.
The newspaper article that I’d definitely thrown in the trash is lying on the kitchen counter, smoothed out as best as it could be.
“What the hell?” I murmur, going to the other side of the counter, the living area side, and leaning over to look at it more closely. I absolutely threw this away.
“Didn’t you like it?” The familiar, uncertain voice makes me levitate, and I’m sure if I could, I would’ve shot through the ceiling from fear. I whirl around, and my hands grip the counter under me as I watch a man stand up from the foot of my bed against the windows in the corner of the apartment.
How in the world did I missa person?
Squinting, I suck in a breath as he comes closer, and finally, I recognize the features of the man in my apartment.
It’s the same guy I’d mistaken forIsaac.
“You,” I breathe, my grip tightening on the fake wood. “What the fuck are you doing in my apartment? Whoareyou?”
“You know me.” He blinks placidly in the face of my near hysteria and comes closer, circling me like he’s some kind of predator and I’m nothing more than hisprey.
“I don’t,” I assure him. “How did you getinhere?”
He ignores the question and frowns, then nods to the paper on the counter behind me. “I had that shipped here after I heard. It really took them a long time to find him, huh?”
“Find…who?” The words leave me breathlessly, and I know that I’m trembling as I try to figure out what to do. The knives in the kitchen are toofar, and I’ve wasted any kind of advantage by being glued in place with fear.
“You madesuchan impression at the convention. Remember that guy who was there toinsultyou after you won? And to tell you that you weren’t worth shit?”
Yeah, I absolutely remember. However, I’m not sure why he’s bringing it up now. The guy had insulted me, my weight, my mental capacity for intellectual thought…it had hurt, sure. It had made me go home early, though I hadn’t told anyone thatparticularcomment. But they were justwords.
“Yes,” I say, my voice barely audible over the rain that’s begun to sheet against the windows.
“He was going tokill you, Ari.” The man steps closer, but I slide away, eyes on his.
“What are you talking about?”
“I was following you too,” he admits shamelessly, and his smile turns almost apologetic, though his eyes remain dark and dangerous. He watches my moves intently, and again there’s something so verypredatorin them.
“Why?” I hate how soft my voice comes out, but hopefully, with how closely he’s watching my face, he won’t realize what I’m doing.
“Why?” He blinks and looks taken aback and then uncertain. “You know why.”
“I really fuckingdon’t.”
“Because youknow me, Ari.” He sounds…hurt, almost. “You’ve known me since we were little.”
A rush of relief, then more fear, shoots through me. “But…” I scramble in my own mind for an excuse. “But you told me I was wrong. You said we’ve never met. That you’re notmyIsaac. Well,” I amend, cringing at my choice of words, “Not the Isaac I knew when we were younger.”
