Page 4

M y phone buzzes with a text.

It’s Connor. Connor Callahan, in case you don’t know.

Of course it is.

My asshole cousin is probably home right now, kicked back on his couch with a beer in one hand and his very pregnant wife, demanding frozen strawberries dipped in cumin or something similar in his other hand.

Clementine’s nearly eight months along with their second child, and knowing her, she’s craving something cold, sweet, and weirdly specific— like lemon sorbet mixed with pickles or some shit.

Normally, I’d do him a solid.

I’ve made midnight snack runs for her before. Even taken the brunt of her hormonal wrath when the ice cream was too melted.

But not tonight.

Something’s off .

I feel it.

It’s that twitchy, under-the-skin kind of unease.

Like the city’s holding its breath and I’m the only one hearing the silence stretch too long.

My muscles are coiled.

Jittery.

I haven’t touched caffeine in six hours, and I still feel wired.

And that’s when the phone rings.

I huff a low growl and answer without thinking.

“What do you want?”

“That’s how you answer? Real nice, you fuck,” Connor barks, full of righteous indignation.

I sigh. “Hello, Connor. What do you want?”

“Oh, wow. So much better,” he says, voice dripping sarcasm. “So warm. So welcoming. I feel cherished.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“You’re bored, aren’t you?”

“No,” he says, unconvincingly. “Maybe. Whatever. I haven’t seen you in, like, a week. Can’t your favorite cousin check in on you?”

“Is this what you call checking in?”

“Yeah, you ungrateful bastard. This is me checking in! You want a goddamn fruit basket with it?”

Despite myself, I grin.

I pull the phone away a little because he’s yelling again, and it’s too damn loud.

“Okay. Fine. I’m good. Working.”

“Working or obsessively tracking a certain blue-eyed woman?”

“None of your fucking business.”

“Balor,” he starts, and I hear it. The worry.

“Don’t.”

I appreciate everything he’s done for me. But I don’t need his concern. Not about this.

Still, I grin cause he’s not lying about being my favorite cousin.

The rest of the Callahans can fuck right off. But Connor is good people. And marrying Clementine Aziz? It’s only made him better.

“You’re the one who turned her down,” he says, and just like that, the grin dies.

My jaw tightens. “I fucking know, asshole. Thanks for the reminder.”

There’s a pause on the line. Then his tone softens.

“Look, cuz, you know I’m just busting your balls. But maybe don’t keep pushing her away if you’re just gonna keep circling her like a goddamn predator, anyway.”

“I’m protecting her,” I snap.

“From what?”

I don’t answer. Because I don’t know.

Yet.

But I’ve learned to trust my gut, and it is twisted up in knots right now.

Fuck.

“Balor, look, you’re obsessed. It’s understandable. But this girl, she’s just another girl. Not this unattainable image you’ve built her up into?—”

“Okay, I’m hanging up now.”

“Balor—”

Click.

I hang up.

Connor’s right about some of it.

Not all.

But some.

And I fucking hate that he’s right.

All that shit about me building Lucy up into something unattainable? It irks me.

I mean, I’ve got proof of the contrary, don’t I?

She asked me out once. Me.

But I can’t even consider it.

No can do.

So, no , I won’t let myself go there.

But I can’t leave her alone either. Not entirely.

Not when there’s something dark moving beneath the surface.

Something I haven’t named yet.

Something that feels like it’s getting closer.

The thing is, my gut, the one I’ve trusted to keep me alive so far? It’s telling me something is amiss.

I have no doubt I’m right.

Lucy is in danger.

From what? I have no clue.

And I don’t think she has any idea, either.

Not about the danger.

Not about me waiting for it, watching out for her from the shadows.

Not really.

She thinks I walked away.

That I said no and meant it.

That I was strong enough to keep my distance.

But she has no fucking idea.

No clue that I never really left.

Not for a goddamn second.

How could I walk away?

When she so clearly needed someone like me to protect her— from everything.

From the world.

From the vultures.

From herself.

This woman.

She trusts too easily.

She smiles too brightly.

She lives in that glittering castle of hers like the world isn’t crawling with monsters.

But I know better.

I am one.

So yeah, I did some things.

Crossed some lines.

Stepped way the hell past boundaries polite men wouldn’t dare look at.

I know all her passwords.

Not because she gave them to me.

Because I found them.

Cracked her security like a hot knife through butter.

She should've known better.

And once the door cracked open, I didn’t hesitate.

I walked straight through.

Emails. DMs. Posts. Comments.

I read every single one.

The sweet ones.

The fake-nice ones.

The disgusting jokes pretending to be flattery.

And then the rot.

The darkness.

The freaks who think they have a right to her.

They send her things.

Say things that make my skin crawl and my knuckles itch.

Dreams, they call them.

Fantasies.

They don’t know I’m watching.

They don’t know I’m there— behind the screen, behind the wall, behind the curtain.

I delete the dick pics.

Block the fuckwads and the bored losers.

But the dangerous ones?

I track them.

IP addresses. Phone numbers. Locations.

And sometimes— if they’re local —I stop by.

Just for a chat.

No violence.

Not unless I have to.

But I make it clear.

Crystal fucking clear.

If they come near her?

If they so much as breathe in her direction?

Their worst fucking nightmares will look like bedtime stories.

Because I don’t hesitate.

I never fucking hesitate when it comes to her.

But the real fucking joke? Every goddamn time, it turns out to be nothing.

Just noise.

Empty fucking noise from people with internet muscles.

But those losers got jack shit in real life.

Still, I can’t stop.

Won’t stop.

She’s got me chasing shadows.

Running circles around my own damn logic.

And she doesn’t even know it.

She thinks I’m gone.

That I walked away.

But the truth is, I’m right here.

Always have been.

Always will be.

Watching.

Waiting.

Protecting what's mine. Whether she knows it or not is unimportant.

But maybe that’s for the best.

Because what the hell would she do if she knew I spend my nights hacking into her world and building silent walls around it?

If she knew I’ve got alerts set up for any mention of her name, any geo-tagged photo within a mile of her location?

If she knew I’ve got eyes on El Tigre , too?

Yeah. Him.

Rico fucking Véliz.

The glitzy, gold-dripping bastard who thinks writing a song gives him a claim.

I’ve got people tracking his movements.

Watching to see if he’s behind any of this shit.

If even one of these obsessive fan accounts is tied back to him, I’ll make sure he never performs again.

At least not with all his teeth.

Lucy’s at some launch party tonight.

High-end venue. Something trendy.

Her security detail is tight.

I already tapped into their comms.

I know when she arrives.

Just like I’ll know when she leaves.

And when she walks through her front door? I’ll be watching.

No, I don’t always check out the video feeds.

That’s too far. Even for me.

But the tracking software I designed lights up on my phone every time she moves.

Mapping her route. Making sure she’s safe.

And now she’s home.

Alone.

I wonder if she’s smiling.

If the fame still tastes sweet or if it’s starting to burn.

I want to believe she’s happy.

I really fucking do.

She smiles for the cameras. Laughs with her cousins. Posts the kind of perfect snapshots that would make anyone think her life’s all designer gowns and charity work despite the fact she does real work at Volkov Industries.

But something tells me she’s not happy.

Not really.

And I don’t know if it’s the slight delay in her texts lately, or the too-bright gleam in her eyes the last time I saw her.

But my gut? My gut hasn’t stopped twisting in days.

That pressure sitting right behind my ribs, the one making it feel like I’m suffocating in my own skin?

That’s not just nerves.

That’s instinct.

And if I’m right?

If something’s wrong?

Then this anxiety I’m choking on is just the tip of something deeper.

Darker.

Because if my girl needs me, I’ll be right fucking here.

I’ll tear through goddamn walls if I have to.

No distance is too far. No obstacle too high.

I’ll find her. I’ll fix it.

I always do even if she doesn’t know it.

Shit.

This is fucked up.

I’m fucked up.

Maybe Connor’s right. Maybe I need to figure my shit out.

Pick a side. Make a choice.

Walk away?

Unfuckinglikely.

Volkov Industries handed me a golden key— a shot at legitimacy.

It’s more than just money and benefits.

It’s respect.

A place at the table with the kind of people who wouldn’t even look at a guy like me twice on the street.

It’s a chance to show them what a so-called street rat can do behind a keyboard.

To prove I belong here.

In their world.

In hers.

And maybe have a real life, too.

I drag a hand down my face, the weight of all of it pressing into me.

Then my phone buzzes.

Once.

Twice.

The name lights up the screen like a flare in the dark.

Lucy.

My pulse stutters.

Because no matter what’s going on in my head, she comes first.

Always.

I answer on the next ring.