Page 28

Jensen nods absently, already back to frowning at surveillance data, and Matteo murmurs a quiet acknowledgment without even looking up. Eli waves me off with a vague grunt, attention glued to his screen, his face still set in that hard-edged intensity that means he's barely tolerating the world around him. He might need the caffeine more than me right now.

I stride toward the elevator, ignoring curious glances from other agents. By the time the doors slide shut, my jaw aches from how tightly I'm clenching my teeth. My reflection in the polished metal surface is sharp, unforgiving—the dark circles beneath my eyes are more pronounced than I'd like. The stress and twisted games have been piling up, and I don’t fucking like the evidence staring back at me.

In the quiet solitude of the descending elevator, my mind drifts back to that goddamn text message. Sneaking into my bedroom was a declaration of war. As much as the invasion rattled me, a twisted part of my mind buzzes quietly with anticipation of the chase—knowing someone dangerous has their eyes fixed solely on me.

And fuck if it doesn't piss me off that a part of me likes the thrill, gets off on the danger just a little too much. Maybe that's my biggest problem—I'm wired for chaos. Normal has never been in my vocabulary. Growing up a Darling saw to that. Raised by parents who walk a knife’s edge between justice and vengeance, between the system and their own brand of morality, there's no chance I'd come out normal. Hell, Hydessa is the closest thing to normalcy in the Darling family, and even she thrives in the shadows, chasing down monsters in her own meticulous way.

Still, there's a difference between danger I choose and danger imposed on me without permission. Whoever this stalker is, they're crossing lines at breakneck speed. Lines I'm going to make them regret stepping over.

The elevator doors open, and I step out into the bustling ground-floor lobby. Sunlight streams through expansive glass windows, temporarily blinding after the artificial gloom of the bullpen. I cross swiftly to the coffee shop across the street, a trendy little place with more plants than furniture and baristas who look like they're auditioning for a fashion shoot. It's ridiculous and overpriced, but they know how to brew coffee that actually tastes like coffee, and today that’s good enough for me.

I step inside, instantly assaulted by the aroma of roasting beans and freshly baked pastries. The line is short, thankfully, and I place orders for myself and the guys, reading their last-minute texts filled with increasingly complicated coffee requests.

“Long day already?” the barista asks with practiced cheerfulness, setting out paper cups and marking them with rapid, neat handwriting.

"Long fucking lifetime," I mutter dryly, handing over cash with a forced smile.

He chuckles nervously, obviously unsure if I'm joking. Good. Let him wonder. I’m not here to be friendly—I’m here because caffeine is the only legal substance keeping me sane today.

After placing our coffee orders, I move aside, impatiently tapping my fingers against the counter. My phone buzzes insistently from my pocket, and the irritation sharpening my features only deepens as I glance down at another message from yet another unknown number.

UNKNOWN

Careful, darling. That scowl might scare off your poor barista. Such a fierce look for someone simply ordering coffee.

Ice trickles through my veins, body rigid, a sense of exposure prickling sharply at the base of my spine. My eyes snap up, scanning the bustling coffee shop instinctively, heart kicking into overdrive as I seek out anyone out of place, anyone lingering too long with their gaze fixed on me.

Another message follows immediately, as though timed perfectly with my searching glare:

UNKNOWN

Don’t bother looking, Seanna. You won’t see us until we want you to.

Not the first time they've said ‘us’, subtly reminding me that this twisted game might have multiple players. Anger and unease swirl hotly together, punctuated by an unwelcome curl of excitement at the sheer fucking nerve.

My finger hovers briefly over Uncle Max’s contact, the urge to call him for help fighting against stubborn pride and dark curiosity. But the thought quickly dissolves; even Max can’t trace ghosts who hide behind burners and encrypted lines. Besides, something deeply possessive within me refuses to share this twisted dance, this secret chase, with anyone else.

Fuck this. With a surge of ruthless determination, I type back:

Who the hell are you? At least give me a name to add to my hit list alongside Reyes. It's only fair I know who I'm going to destroy once I find you.

I scan the coffee shop again, eyeing every customer with fresh suspicion. The young couple in the corner, the businessman scrolling through his phone, the woman with her laptop—any of them could be watching me. The vibration of my phone startles me because it comes faster than I expect. Almost like he’d been waiting. Like he wanted me to ask.

UNKNOWN

You can call me Ruin.

Because that’s what I’ll do to you, Seanna.

Body. Mind. Soul.

And when I’m done, you’ll beg me to do it again.

I shouldn't be turned on. I should be furious—not standing in a fucking coffee shop with heat pooling between my thighs and my pulse hammering for all the wrong reasons. But there's something about the audacity, the sheer commanding confidence in those messages that hits a primal chord inside me.

Ruin. Even the name he's chosen drips with arrogance and dark promise.

What the actual fuck is wrong with me?