Page 10 of Shattered by Grace (The Locke Empire Duet #1)

Chapter Seven

A s Victoria emerged from the locker room, her bag slung over her shoulder, she couldn’t help but notice Tristan effortlessly charming the small crowd of women surrounding him.

They laughed at something he said, their eyes fixed on him like he was the only man in the room. Annoyance prickled under her skin.

Of course.

Rolling her eyes, she stalked past, refusing to give him or his fan club another glance.

"Night, Tony. Night, Casey," she muttered as she approached the front counter, where the two men were deep in conversation.

Casey glanced up and smirked. "Hell of a fight tonight, Grace. You’ve got some serious grit."

Tony nodded in agreement. "Yeah, you keep that up, and you might just give some of these guys a real run for their money."

Victoria allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. "I’ll take that as a compliment."

Just as Victoria reached for the door, the air shifted.

A towering figure stepped inside, his presence suffocating.

The sharp scent of smoke curled into her nostrils, dragging up memories she wished stayed buried.

Her eyes locked onto the tattoo around Razer’s neck, and a chill slid down her spine.

The terror of that night came roaring back, raw and unrelenting.

Jaw clenched, she willed the fear away, but it clung to her, heavy and unshakable.

"Razer, you're late," Tyson barked from behind her as he walked through the door.

Victoria whipped around to see Tyson standing so close to her that she could smell him. When the hell did he get here? Victoria thought as Tyson listened to Razer with such disgust.

"Sorry, Mr. Locke," Razer responded uncomfortably, shifting under the intense displeased look on Tyson's face. "Your father had me handle a few things before coming to the gym.” His deep voice brought her right back to her bedroom, when she was fighting for survival.

"Fine. Go warm up," Tyson commanded, turning to follow Razer.

His tone carried a trace of dry humor, but Victoria didn’t miss the tension coiled beneath it. “He won’t bite,” he added, though the cold intensity in his eyes suggested otherwise.

Victoria’s gaze locked with Tyson’s for a fleeting second, just long enough to feel the weight behind it. No words were needed.

Razer’s uneven steps scraped against the floor, a haunting echo of the past. The scarred reminder of what he’d tried to do to her all those years ago twisted the air between them.

Her stomach clenched. The gym walls felt too tight, the air too thick.

The memory crashed into her. Her bedroom door bursting open, hands reaching, the desperate fight to escape.

She needed out.

Victoria forced herself to walk, every step measured until she hit the night air. The cool breeze did little to stop the tremor in her limbs.

Breathe.

One, two, three, four.

The city was quiet, too quiet, her footsteps too loud.

You’re not being followed.

Still, her gaze flicked over her shoulder, pulse hammering, convinced that if she stopped, the past would finally catch up.

As she walked briskly toward her apartment, the thought You should never have come back to this city looped in her mind like a broken record.

Each corner she turned, every darkened alley she passed, seemed to whisper her fears back at her, amplifying her sense of impending doom.

Her heart pounded relentlessly in her chest, a constant reminder of her fear.

Sweat beaded at her temples, and her hands trembled uncontrollably as she gripped her bag tighter.

She fought to maintain composure, but the oppressive weight of her past seemed to press down on her with each step.

“Thank god,” she spoke out loud as she started taking her apartment front steps two at a time before getting to her door, dropping her keys several times because she’s so shaken.

The feeling of someone standing around her kept her looking over her shoulder but no one was there.

Get it together, you freaking yourself out for nothing.

With each frantic step, she could feel her heart pounding in her chest, her breath coming in short gasps.

She practically flew up the apartment front steps, two at a time, her hands shaking violently as she struggled to insert her key into the lock.

The cool metal slipped from her grasp multiple times, adding to her anxiety.

As she fumbled with the lock, she couldn't shake the feeling of someone watching her, causing her to constantly glance over her shoulder.

Finally inside, she slammed and locked the door behind her with a loud click, leaning up against it for just a second to try and catch her breath.

Her gym bag dropped to the floor with a thud as she sprinted straight to the bathroom.

Trembling hands reached for the faucet, turning it on full blast as cold water splashed onto her face.

She took deep breaths, trying to calm her racing heart and frazzled nerves.

Turning off the faucet, she patted her face dry with a soft, worn towel and inhaled deeply, trying to steady her racing heart.

In the mirror, Victoria’s reflection looked back at her, eyes wide with lingering fear.

She needed to pull herself together. She was safe.

She was home. He wasn’t here. But it didn’t feel true. Not tonight.

Stepping out of the dimly lit bathroom, she ventured into the living room, her gaze darting across every shadowy nook and cranny as if an intruder might leap out at any moment.

The silence hung thick in the air, amplifying each creak of the old wooden floorboards beneath her feet.

“Ughh, get it together, Victoria. No one is here,” she muttered to herself, words dissipating like fog in the cold air.

Victoria’s boots thudded softly against the floor as she crossed the room toward the punching bag.

It hung in the corner, swaying gently, the rhythmic motion almost soothing.

But beneath it all, her nerves were frayed, tension crackling under her skin like static.

She needed to work through it. Needed to drown out the noise.

“You’re lucky, little bird.” The rough, husky voice slithered into her mind, uninvited, dragging her back to that night.

Her fingers slid into the gloves, the soft fabric clinging to her palms, a small comfort amidst the chaos of her thoughts.

But then, like a phantom, the smell of cigarette smoke wrapped itself around her senses, thick and suffocating.

The bitter sting of it hit her nostrils as if she’d been thrown right back into her childhood bedroom. Blood. There was so much blood.

She moved through the drills—jabs, crosses—her body falling into a familiar rhythm, muscle memory taking over.

Each punch slammed into the bag with a sharp, bone-rattling thud, sending a surge of heat through her veins.

But it wasn’t the bag she saw. It was Razer’s face, twisted in that sickening grin, the damn cigarette dangling from his lips.

Little bird. The words echoed in her mind like a broken record, driving her crazy. Little bird. He had called her fragile, weak. She could feel the anger building, boiling over, as her fists struck harder and faster, desperate to release everything he had made her feel.

Just one little slice, the voice echoed again, thick with menace.

She clenched her teeth, feeling the burn in her knuckles, but it wasn’t enough.

The rage, the fear, all of it was a storm brewing inside her, and she couldn’t stop it.

Each punch was a release, each thud against the bag a way to fight back, to silence the memories clawing their way into her mind.

Her breath came in ragged bursts, each strike a small escape from the fury coiling in her chest. Sweat beaded on her brow, her muscles screaming from the effort, but it barely registered.

She was lost in the rhythm now, lost in the blur of fists and memories and the sound of Razer’s taunting laugh in the back of her mind.

The ghost of his cigarette smoke lingered, stinging her lungs like it always did. You didn’t win, she reminded herself, the weight of the thought pressing in. He didn’t break you.

Out of the corner of her eye, a flash of movement caught Victoria’s attention, making her freeze.

Every instinct screamed to be alert, her body going rigid.

Slowly, she inched toward the window, her heart pounding, every nerve in her body on edge.

Cautiously, she parted the sheer curtains and peered outside.

"HOLY FUCK!" Victoria gasped, clutching her chest as her heart thundered in her ears.Her fear was instantly replaced by shock as Miss Clawdia, her massive black Maine Coon, leapt onto her foot and padded calmly across it. “Clawdia, you sneaky little devil! You scared me half to death.”

The cat looked up at her with those piercing, enigmatic green eyes that seemed to see everything, all the way to the heart of her. Victoria scooped her up, trying to soothe her racing pulse. She stroked Clawdia’s fur, feeling a mix of relief and irritation.

The weight of the unsettling moment pressed in, and Victoria’s mind returned to the terrifying figure she’d seen today, the man who haunted her thoughts. Her fingers moved automatically toward the phone on the counter.

Victoria dialed Detective Adams' number, the steady beeping of the keys a small distraction. She tapped her fingers impatiently as she waited for the call to connect.

“I saw a really bad man today,” she said softly, her voice strained and hoarse with anxiety. She scratched Clawdia’s head, the cat’s purrs providing a small comfort as she tried to steady her nerves. “I think it has me a little on edge.”

“This is Detective Adams. Sorry I missed your call. Please leave your name and number, and I’ll return your call at the earliest I can.”

“Ugh,” she muttered, rolling her eyes, frustration clear in her voice. “It’s Victoria. I need to talk to you.”

She hesitated for a moment, letting out a shaky breath before cutting the message. Her grip tightened on the phone before she set it down on the counter.

The comforting purr of Clawdia settled her nerves slightly as she sank onto the couch, her legs heavy with lingering fear. She scratched behind the cat’s ears absently, her mind split between the call and the steady rhythm of her thoughts.

Clawdia’s presence was the only thing that anchored her right now, the soft rumbling of her purring the only sound that could cut through the static in her head. But even it wasn’t enough to calm the gnawing anxiety.

Victoria flicked through channels mindlessly, the images blurring together as she tried to drown out her fears in the TV’s hum. But no matter how much she tried to distract herself, her mind kept circling back to him—the man who had attacked her when she was fifteen.

The coldness in his eyes, the tattoo on his neck she’d seen as she stabbed him. It was unmistakable. The acrid scent of cigarettes still clung to her memory, as did the sound of his voice. He hadn’t recognized her, but that didn’t stop the anxiety coiling in her chest.

Clawdia’s deep purring pulled her back to the present, the rhythmic vibration grounding her.

Absentmindedly, Victoria stroked the cat’s soft fur, letting the warmth soothe her frayed nerves.

For a moment, she simply focused on the comfort of Clawdia’s presence, nearly forgetting the fight at the gym.

She exhaled a quiet laugh, shaking her head. “You should’ve seen me tonight, Clawdia. I went toe-to-toe with Tristan Locke tonight.” She scratched behind the cat’s ears, smirking. “And I didn’t let him win.”