Page 5

Flynn

“ W hat do you mean, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with me? I’m telling you, it feels like there’s a shard of ice stuck inside me!”

The doctor peered at me over her wire-rimmed glasses, tapping her pen against the clipboard. Four hours, two blood tests, a chest x-ray, and an ECG later, and this was what I got? A pat on the head and directions to the nearest psych ward?

“Mr Carter, we’ve run every test we can think of. Your vitals are normal, there’s no sign of any foreign substances in your system, and nothing is visible on your chest under any of our equipment.”

I pulled my torn jumper aside, jabbing at the spot where Damien had touched me. “Look, I know how this sounds, but—”

“Have you considered that this might be anxiety related?” The doctor didn’t hide her patronising tone. “You mentioned you’ve recently moved to London. Big changes can trigger physical manifestations of stress.”

Right. Because anxiety explained how that bastard had climbed a vertical wall like Spider-Man.

“Fine.” I stood up, gathering what remained of my dignity. “Thanks for your help.”

The doctor held something out. “Here’s a leaflet on counselling if you’d—”

I snatched the paper and stuffed it in my pocket, already heading for the door. The fluorescent lights of A&E made my head throb, then outside, the pre-dawn air was a slap in the face. I checked my phone: 03:47. Public transport wasn’t running, and a taxi was way over budget .

Fucking brilliant.

I pulled up maps and started the long walk home, hugging Emma’s tiny jacket to my chest in a futile attempt to combat the chill. Thank god she’d finally agreed to leave—at least she hadn’t been there to see the doctor laugh at me.

Each step brought fresh waves of mortification.

I’d brought this all upon myself by foolishly believing that Damien was interested in sleeping with me.

You fucking idiot. Your first night out in London and you broke every single basic safety rule. Don’t accept drinks within five minutes of meeting someone. Don’t follow them down dark alleys.

Don’t let yourself become a human ice lolly was a new one, but apparently it needed adding to the list.

I’d wondered earlier why Damien had selected me out of everyone in that crowded bar.

The answer was now glaringly obvious—easy fucking prey.

Not for the first time, homesickness washed over me. If I’d stayed in Ireland, I’d be safely tucked away in my cosy little room at Barbara’s house right now—my dear, sweet old landlady.

The empty streets echoed with my footsteps. Each shadow stretched longer, darker, more menacing than the last. The ice in my chest pulsed with renewed vigour.

Time stretched like treacle as I walked, my thoughts cycling between self-recrimination and panic. Three miles had never felt so far. The occasional rumble of a night bus or distant siren only emphasised how alone I was.

My pace quickened. The familiar outline of my tower block loomed ahead, its brutalist concrete edges stark against the sky.

Nearly home. Nearly safe.

Something scraped against the pavement behind me.

Don’t look back. Don’t run. Act normal.

The hair on my neck prickled. Footsteps suddenly perfectly matched my rhythm .

I sped up. They sped up.

Shit shit shit. My throat tightened at the thought of Damien’s cold hands on me again.

My mother’s voice rang in my head… Keys between your fingers, love.

Like brass knuckles. She’d taught us both that trick years ago in our kitchen, Katie and I laughing until Mum made us practise properly.

Katie’s face had turned deadly serious as she punched the air, and I’d never forgotten the look in her eyes—the same protective glare she’d given any boy who’d ever bothered me at school.

I fumbled in my pocket, wrapping my fingers around the cold metal. The weight felt reassuring, familiar.

Twenty metres to the door. Fifteen. Ten.

The footsteps grew closer.

My hand shook as I reached for the security panel. Just one more step into the fluorescent light of the entrance—

A vice-like grip clamped around my arm, yanking me backwards. I spun, keys raised, ready to slash—

Another hand seized my wrist, stopping my attack mid-swing. The grip was iron, immovable.

A gasp of surprise left my lips as I found myself staring into dark eyes framed by tight chestnut curls.

The guy with the gun.

The guy with the gun had followed me home.

“Don’t panic,” he said, voice low and controlled. “Listen, I just need—”

I screamed , the sound echoing off the concrete walls.

His hand clamped over my mouth, muffling my cries, the touch of his skin ice-cold against my lips.

No! I’d already been easy prey once this evening. I refused to go down a second time without a fight.

Pure instinct took over. I bit down hard, my teeth meeting resistance like I was trying to bite through marble instead of flesh. His grip loosened for a split second—just enough time. I drove my knee upward, connecting with his groin with every ounce of strength I had.

“ ?Joder !” He stumbled back, doubling over. “ Hijo de— ”

I didn’t wait to hear the rest of whatever curse he was spitting. My fingers flew across the keypad, punching in the code. The lock clicked. I yanked the door open and bolted down the corridor.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I rounded the corner, nearly slipping on the polished floor. The lift was too risky—he could catch up while I waited. Instead, I crashed through the fire escape door and took the stairs two at a time.

The ice in my chest burned colder with each step.

Should I call the police? But what would I say? Some bloke—“ who shot at another man spider-monkeying up a wall, officer” —followed me home and grabbed me? After the doctor’s dismissal, the last thing I needed was another authority figure treating me like I belonged in a padded room.

No. Better to get inside, lock the door, and pretend none of this had happened.

You’re getting rather good at that, aren’t you?

The thought hit like a punch to the gut. I pushed it away, focusing on the four flights of stairs. My fingers trembled as I fumbled with my keys, dropping them twice before managing to get the right one into the lock.

Inside, I slammed the door shut. The chain slid into place with a satisfying click. My legs gave out. I slumped against the door, sliding down until I hit the floor with a thud.

I held my breath, straining my ears.

Nothing.

I should have felt safer once I was home, but this cramped flat still didn’t feel like home after three weeks.

I forced myself to stand up on my jelly legs, then fled to my bedroom.

I jumped into my waiting bed, curling into a ball.

My breath came in waves, each one pulling me further from shore.

I pressed my back against the wall, trying to find an anchor point as memories of Damien’s smile and then my assailant’s grip threatened to drag me under .

You’re okay. You’re inside. He can’t get in.

But then the memory of Damien scaling that wall flashed through my mind, and I jerked my head up to stare at my bedroom window.

Fourth floor. No fire escape. No ledges. Just smooth concrete and glass.

Even Spider-Man would struggle with that.

A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. I choked it back down.

My fingers traced the spot where the chill radiated, like my blood had been replaced with liquid nitrogen.

I pressed my palm flat against my chest, willing the sensation to fade.

Please, just let me wake up and let this nightmare be over.