Page 36 of Velvet Chains

It didn’t matter.

I was still watching.

That night, she left her office late. Alek walked her to the car, she hugged him…they laughed about something, their voices too quiet for me to distinguish them. I felt something in my jaw crack, because I should have been the one laughing with her, walking her to her car,protecting her.

She didn’t go home…which I knew because I followed her.

Because even if she had me blocked on her phone, she couldn’t keep me out.

I grappled with what I would do if she went to a guy’s house as I drove, wondering notifI would act, but how I would beat the hell out of him. I had a tire iron in my trunk, a knife on my belt, a gun in the glovebox. Would I make him beg for his life? Make him watch while I fucked her? Would she like it?

Luckily, she didn’t go to a guy’s house; she went to visit a friend. A woman I’d never seen before, with blonde hair and big cheeks, opened the door for her. They hugged briefly, then Ruby walked in with a brown paper bag. Through the window, I could see them chatting, having a few glasses of wine together. I looked up the address while they chatted.

The Eastie apartment belonged to a woman named Lana Fielder. She was a case manager at a nonprofit that specialized in post-conviction services. Nothing flashy, no direct political power…but if you wanted to know who had a record sealed or why a certain file went missing, you called someone like her. Over forty, never married. From her social media accounts, I knew she liked knitting and archery.

Weird.

I added archery to the list of ways to torture men Ruby had slept with.

The wine seemed unremarkable. They got Chinese food and Ruby left Lana’s apartment two hours later. She got in her car, alone.

That was when I saw the guy.

He stood across the street, hoodie up, hands buried deep in his pockets. His stance was too still, too intentional. Not likesomeone out for a walk. Like someone waiting for the signal to move.

Then he did.

He started walking, not fast, but with purpose. He kept his distance—just far enough that Ruby wouldn’t notice. Just close enough that he could follow her all the way home if he wanted.

I dropped my cigarette, ground it out with my boot, and crossed the street without breaking stride.

He took a turn down a narrow alley. I followed, heart thudding, every nerve on high alert. My boots echoed off the concrete. His didn’t.

He was almost to the end of the alley when I saw his right hand disappear into his coat pocket.

I didn’t wait to see what came out.

I lunged forward and grabbed him by the shoulder. He turned just as I slammed him into the brick wall. The force knocked the breath out of both of us. I felt something shift between us—glass on glass, or maybe just instinct.

Then I saw it. A bottle in his hand. Clear glass, the neck stuffed with a rag, already dripping.

The scent hit me hard and fast.

Gasoline.

A fucking Molotov.

My stomach dropped. Was he planning to burn her alive?

He twisted, trying to shove me off. I shoved back harder, pinning him with my forearm across his chest. His grip tightened on the bottle—his one chance to do what he came here to do.

I wasn’t about to let him.

He swung at me, wild and off-balance. The punch landed more with panic than force, but it caught me across the jaw and knocked me sideways. We both stumbled. He fell, and I went down with him.

The bottle stayed in his grip.

“You were gonna light her up?” I growled, grabbing the front of his coat. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”