Page 7

T he car is quiet.

Too quiet.

My hands flex on the purse I carried with me.

Balor drives like he does everything— controlled, intense, with a lethal edge humming just beneath the surface.

He hasn't said much since we left my apartment.

Not after I let him strong-arm me into going with him to his place.

Not after I locked the door and slid into the passenger seat like some kind of obedient hostage.

None of that is true.

I’m being emotional.

I’m upset, angsty, and it is all warranted.

But he did nothing out of character.

Besides, I’m the one who called him.

I called and he came.

Like some beautiful avenging angel.

My fingers are still curled tight around the straps of my purse, my palms clammy.

I hate how shaky I feel. How exposed.

I’ve done photo shoots in lingerie.

Walked runways with my head held high while fashion critics picked me apart in real time.

I’ve stood beside my father at business functions filled with billionaires and fake smiles.

But this?

This feels so much worse.

Because someone was in my home.

Someone touched my things. Tore my clothes. Desecrated my bed. Left that fucking flower. And that goddamn note like I was a prize they’d already claimed.

And Balor— thank fuck for Balor.

He stormed in like a silent storm.

Didn’t even ask. Just decided. Just took over.

And it was everything I needed.

“You cool enough?” he asks suddenly, without looking at me.

The question throws me.

I blink at him.

The digital clock glares at me from the dashboard like it’s judging my whole life.

3:03 a.m.

Still dark. Still humid as hell.

Eighty-seven degrees and climbing, even with the sun still down.

June’s out here cosplaying August, and I swear I can feel the heat pressing in from every angle—like it wants to crawl inside my skin.

And it’s not just the temperature.

It’s him.

Balor Cruz.

Two-tone eyes, tattoos, and the kind of energy that’s both salvation and danger, all wrapped in one too-quiet package.

“Lucy?” he says softly.

Concern threads through his voice.

I bite the inside of my cheek, then exhale, trying to make sense of the chaos still screaming in my head.

“Sorry,” I murmur, voice a little too brittle. “It’s just, someone broke into my apartment, did unspeakable things, trashed my stuff, and then you came and got me out of there, decided I’m coming home with you like some medieval caveman.”

I pause. My hands make a helpless gesture.

“And now you’re worried about my comfort?”

It comes out sharper than I intended.

And I hate myself for it.

Because I know it’s not fair.

None of this is.

Not to him.

Not to me.

Not to us—if there even is such a thing.

I glance sideways. His profile is tight.

Rigid. Controlled.

But his grip on the steering wheel gives him away.

White-knuckled. Barely holding it together.

And that does something to me.

Makes my heart twist in on itself.

Because I want to be held.

Not coddled. Not pitied. Not protected because I’m some delicate ornament he once admired from a distance.

I want him.

But he’s the one who walked away.

Told me we couldn’t happen.

Told me I was too good. Too shiny. Too much.

So what the hell am I supposed to think now?

Why was it him I called?

Why is he the one who came, no questions, ready to burn the world down?

What does that say about me?

What does it say about us?

He doesn’t look at me, but his jaw ticks.

“Don’t test me, Lucy,” he mutters.

Voice rough. Frayed.

“I'm hanging on by a thread right now.”

And something inside me fractures.

Because that doesn’t sound like indifference.

That sounds like a man drowning in the weight of everything he’s been holding back.

My breath catches.

And for the first time in hours, I realize—I’m not the only one who’s hurting.

The tension in his voice makes me pause.

There’s a part of me— stubborn and spiteful —that wants to push.

To claw back some control.

But one glance at his profile, at the hard line of his jaw, the set of his mouth, and I press my lips together instead.

I turn to the window. Watch the city blur past.

We hit a red light.

“Balor,” I say, quieter now. “Do you think it was—I mean, could it be?”

He doesn’t even blink.

Just keeps his eyes locked on the road, jaw tight enough to crack.

“Who?” he grits out. “That fucking song-writing prick making eyes at you all over the goddamn internet? El Tigre ?”

The disdain in his voice is so thick you can cut it with a knife.

I nod once.

He doesn’t answer right away. But his silence screams.

And it says everything.

He’s already thought about it.

Obsessively. Thoroughly. Maybe even violently.

That shouldn’t excite me, but let’s face it, I still have the hots for this man. This strangely beautiful man with all his inked up skin and his bi-color eyes.

One stormy. One emerald. Like magic.

“I don’t know,” he finally says. “Not yet.”

“But you’re watching him.”

It’s not a question. I already know the answer.

There’s a reason I called Balor.

Not my father.

Not my uncles or cousins.

Not even the security team on my payroll.

No, I called him. Because I knew what I’d get.

Not someone who’d panic or posture or call in favors.

Not someone who’d make me feel guilty even if they didn’t mean to.

But someone who would destroy the threat.

Burn it to ash if he had to.

And that— God help me —that’s why I’m here, sitting in his car, going to his place.

I don’t want comfort.

I want retribution.

I want the one man I know won’t flinch at how dark things might get.

Balor doesn’t judge me.

Doesn’t blame my face?—

The one I had no say in.

The one the world decided belonged to them the moment I turned thirteen.

The one photographers dissect with lighting and filters and contracts.

The one men leer at like an invitation, and women whisper about like a weapon.

He doesn’t blame me for that.

Doesn’t twist it around and make it something ugly.

Doesn’t call me vain for being visible.

Or dangerous for being wanted.

He doesn’t make me feel like I should apologize for existing in this skin.

Or for the clothes I wear.

For being too much, too bold, too visible, too me.

He doesn’t shrink me down to make himself bigger.

Doesn’t call me fragile just because I cry.

Doesn’t call me dramatic when I burn.

No—Balor Cruz does none of that. And he sees it all.

The beauty, the burden, the bruises I don’t show.

And somehow, he never looks away.

He looks through it.

Through me.

Like he’s the only one who ever bothered to see the girl behind the face.

And not just the girl—but the fighter.

The woman.

The fire.

And that?

That’s what scares me most of all.

Because if he sees all of me, and he still came for me tonight, maybe I can make him want to stay.

Maybe that means he’s real.

And that’s terrifying, because if he’s real—then I have everything to lose.