Page 34 of Ruin My Life

Which means…

Someone’sinside.

I jolt upright, the adrenaline kicking in before my brain fully catches up. I fumble for the alarm and tap in the four-digit code to stop the flash before locking my eyes on the bedroom door.

My breath catches and stays there, frozen in my throat.

The apartment is quiet except for the wind whistling against the windows and the soft flutter of curtains beyond the door.

Maybe I left the window open. The breeze could’ve blown the curtain into motion.

It’s possible. Probable, even.

But I don’t move.

Still as a corpse, I count five deep breaths.

I slide out of bed in one smooth motion, planting on the balls of my feet.

My gun’s locked in the safe in my office—which is stupid, in hindsight—but my fingers already know where to go.

A switchblade. Tucked between the mattress and the headboard.

Cool metal kisses my palm as I grip the handle tightly, ignoring the sweat slicking my skin as I tiptoe toward the bedroom door.

Every step is silent. Every shift of weight deliberate.

I press my ear to the wood and listen.

My heart pounds like it wants to punch a hole through my ribs, but I try to ignore it.

I don’t hear any movement. Just wind. Just my pulse.

I twist the knob and inch the door open.

It squeaks, loud in the silence, but I don’t flinch. I hover in the threshold, eyes sweeping the living room, lit faintly by moonlight spilling through the curtains.

No one’s there.

At least… not anymore.

I step out, knife at the ready, eyes flicking toward the shadows that gather in the corners. Every instinct in my body is vibrating, coiled and waiting.

The curtains billow, and I freeze.

The window is open.

Not cracked—wide open.

That’s the one with the fire escape outside.

Ineveropen it. Not when I have a perfectly functional window in the kitchen for fresh air.

The closer I get, the colder the air becomes. My stomach sinks lower with every step.

The outer ledge of the window frame is bent—warped, like someone forced it open with a crowbar or screwdriver. The lock is a twisted piece of scrap metal dangling loose in the corner.

Shit.