Page 4

ANISSA

I thought maybe I’d been imagining things, but the dream is always the same.

I fall asleep, and the room is quiet. Empty. But there’s breathing—low, measured, too close.

I jolt awake, my pulse hammering too fast. But there’s always silence. No movement. No shadow. Nothing out of place except the weight pressing down on my chest.

So I finally cave and call in a favor with the Irish to do a sweep of my apartment.

They must think I’m crazy because no one’s here. Just me.

Then why do I hear someone breathing ?

I tell myself it’s just stress, just my mind fucking with me. But I haven’t forgotten the little things out of place.

Yes, that was a couple of weeks ago.

Yes, there was no sign of forced entry.

Yes, I have no verifiable proof.

But my instinct knows better.

I’ve made enemies in my line of work, but I thought I was covered under the Irish’s protection.

Now I’m not so sure.

I wake from another night of bad dreams, throw the covers off, and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. My muscles ache, and the effects of too little sleep for too long are wearing on me.

I need to figure out why I’m having these nightmares and why I’m freaking out. I need to get out of this apartment. I can’t shake the feeling that someone’s been here.

I stand and stretch.

And then I see it.

My stomach drops to the floor.

The far wall—the one I was facing. The one just feet away from where I slept.

Marked.

Slashed across the drywall in thick, dripping red is a single word:

MINE.

A scream locks in my throat.

I stumble back, my calves hitting the bed frame, sending me crashing down.

Who would do this?

I scramble to my feet, my legs shaking, and rush to the front door.

No. I have to grab something to wear before I call them.

“You motherfucking asshole,” I seethe at my empty apartment. “When I find out, I’ll fucking kill you.”

Cillian answers.

“Someone’s been in my apartment.”

“Right now?” he asks, his voice tight and angry. “Any signs of entry?”

“No.” My voice shakes. “No signs of entry, but someone painted on the wall.”

“I’ll be right there.”

It takes him fifteen minutes to get here. I’m freezing, trembling in my coat, when he finally pulls up. I walk down the stairs.

“I wanted to tell you guys—little things have been out of place.” I fill him in on all the details.

“You look like shite,” he snarls. “Like you haven’t slept. You need sleep, lass.”

How do I tell him I haven’t been sleeping because when I fall asleep, I hear someone breathing ?

I can’t. He’ll think I’m crazy, and I need their gig.

He takes the stairs two at a time, and I trot in his wake. It doesn’t bring me the assurance I hoped it would—this large, muscled man coming to help me.

He’s here because he has to be.

Not because he wants to be.

He opens the door and pushes it open.

“Where is it?” he asks.

I point a trembling finger toward my room.

“Where?”

Where? What is he talking about? Isn’t it obvious?

I follow him in, pointing at the wall that’s now?—

Blank.

Clean.

Not a trace on the wall.

What the actual fuck?

“It was right there,” I say, and I feel like one of those crazy heroines in a movie where someone’s playing a prank on her.

He turns and cocks his head to the side.

“How do you feel? All right?” He watches me carefully. “My boss wanted to bring you in today. Had another job for you. Maybe you need a little time off.”

I can tell he’s trying to be nice, but questioning my ability to do my job is not the way.

“I’m fine,” I tell him, shaking my head.

“You said you saw paint on the wall?”

“Yes.”

He shrugs a big shoulder. “What did it say?”

I swallow hard before answering.

“Mine.”

His eyebrows shoot up, and he purses his lips.

“Well, it wasn’t one of us,” he says quickly.

Too quickly.

It hurts.

“I know.”

“Listen, take a little time off. Get out of Dodge for a while, yeah? We weren’t meeting this weekend anyway.”

I nod. That actually sounds like a good idea. When things are going haywire, I don’t like staying in one place too long. I never did.

The cool thing about Dublin is how easy it is to leave. In six hours, I could be in America, Iceland, Greenland, or Paris.

“Good idea.”

He gives me a brotherly pat on the shoulder.

“That’s a lass. Go take care of yourself. We’ll have work for you when you come back.”

Then he’s gone.

And I’m alone in my apartment. Back with my crazy thoughts and fucking stalker.

I snatch my phone off the nightstand. I need to get to the airport and book a flight.

Paris is quick and easy. Too many tourists. No one will suspect I’m there. And it’s fun to get dressed up.

I can do this.

I need cash. Once I get a ticket, I’ll have a way out.

I quickly pack my bag, but when I find my blonde wig hanging exactly where I thought I left it, I hesitate.

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe I have gone bonkers.

I eye the prescription bottle sitting next to my bed, then shove it into the bottom of my bag.

Cash is the easiest way to move. I have a small stash in my safe, and I’ll take that with me.

I open the safe.

It’s empty.

No.

Impossible.

I have to get out of here.

I grab my purse, shove my hand inside for the ATM card, and walk downstairs. Right across from the little convenience store is an ATM.

I need a way out.

I swipe my card.

Red. DECLINED.

I try again. I refuse to believe this is happening.

DECLINED .

I never used it. Never even touched it.

I open the banking app, and a notification flashes in red: Your account has been flagged for fraudulent activity.

I go still as a cold sweat prickles over my skin.

My breath comes too fast.

Every option I had…

Gone.

I have no cash.

I lift my chin and make a decision. I have a second burner phone, and I am not helpless.

I try a different site, something untraceable, something that will let me buy a ticket now, but the damn page won’t load.

A text pings through.

I don’t want to read it, but I have to, god.

What if it’s O’Rourke or one of his men?

An unknown number.

Unknown

Mine.

My phone nearly slips through my fingers.

I need a cab, a train—something.

A car slows at the curb, and a driver leans out the window.

“Need a ride?”

I can’t see who it is in the car, but nothing about this is familiar.

I tell myself I’m imagining ghosts everywhere I go.

“Yes, I need a ride. Thank you.”

The man’s wrist rests against the steering wheel.

“Come in. It’s open,” he says.

He doesn’t have an Irish accent.

My stomach lurches.

“Well? Are you coming in?”

He leans over, and I swear I see something Russian tattooed on his hand.

“I-I forgot something,” I mumble, forcing a smile.

I turn, walking fast, and duck into the first dark alley I see.

Streetlights flicker overhead.

The pavement feels too quiet.

Everything feels wrong.

I try to shake myself to see if I’m asleep or awake, but I’m definitely awake.

My eyes burn too much.

My stomach churns with hunger. When was the last time I ate?

The car idles at the alley’s entrance.

What the actual fuck?

I reach into my coat, and my fingers close around a small blade.

I know even now that it’s too small, too useless, but maybe if I?—

A shadow moves behind me.

I spin, my heart stuttering.

A hand clamps over my mouth.

Beautiful, furious, unforgettable, stormy gray eyes meet mine.

A voice murmurs in my ear.

“Mine.”

* * *