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Instead, I’ve met him with resistance, with judgment.

“Draco?”

He doesn’t turn back, doesn’t acknowledge me. He just keeps walking.

A cat darts out from a nearby alley, its eyes glowing like lanterns in the gloom. It pauses, watching me warily before disappearing into the shadows. I envy its freedom, its ability to hide from the world. If only I could do the same.

When Draco’s gone—out of sight—I hurry down the sidewalk, my eyes on the concrete and my mind far, far away, tangled with thoughts that stab and cut like thorns.

My apartment building looms ahead, its silhouette stark against the indigo sky. Each window is a blank, accusatory eye, reflecting the cold moonlight. The sight of it fills me with dread, a heavy weight settling in my chest.

As I reach the door, my keys jangle in my trembling hand, the metallic clink echoing with an odd merriment that feels eerie and out of place. The lock clicks open, and the door swings inward, revealing the shadows of my apartment. I step inside, the door closing behind me with a snap, a barrier sealing me off from the world.

Once again, I am alone, and I have no one to blame but myself.

Chapter 8

Draco

The broken hall light flickers above me.

It’s dying from years of neglect.

Kind of like me.

I snort at the thought.

It’s a small moment of happiness before the anger returns, and it returns with a vengeance. When I turn and look at Mercy’s apartment door again, I’m shaking.

She thinks she can refuse me?

Refuse my protection?

The thought would be hilarious if it didn’t piss me off so fuckin’ bad.

She fuckin’ belongs to me. Who does she think she is?

My fingers twitch at my side, the knuckles cracking and popping with anticipation. It’s an itch, but it dances just out of reach, like a whisper over my shoulder.

I glance around the hallway, empty and quiet save for the hum of the fluorescent lights over my head.

This will be too easy.

Pathetic, really.

I glance over my shoulder at all the other apartment doors, closed and quiet.

No one’s home. It’s just me and my demons.

They all think they’re safe. They sit in their houses like rats in a hole, their thoughts empty and void of all the fear they should be feeling, if they were smart enough.

They hide behind locked doors and deadbolts, but they don’t keep them as safe as they think they do.

I reach into my pocket, pulling out the small leather pouch that holds my lock pick tools. I pull out two of the tools and get to one knee, stuffing the pouch back into my jacket pocket.

I slip the tension wrench into the hole, applying just enough pressure to keep it tight, but not too much. Next, I slip the pick comb past it, feeling for the pins inside the lock. One by one, they click into place, one after the other, over and over again, until the lock gives way with a satisfying click, and the door creaks open in my hands.

I pocket the tools with a smile on my face.