Page 98 of Wasted Grace

Because even if her answer breaks me—I need to know the woman I forced her to become after I betrayed her.

She nods. Once. Stiffly.

Then she leaves without a word.

I’m left staring at the door, breathing through the familiar roar of panic. That’s probably why I forget to take my pain meds.

And also why I forget the damn insomnia pills.

Because that night, sleep doesn’t come.

But something else does.

TWENTY-FIVE

Greesha

Blood.

That’s the first thing I see. A jagged smear on pale tile, glistening under the hallway light like someone had landed in their own blood. I don’t remember hearing anything. Just the clatter—something heavy toppling onto the floor outside my room.

I freeze. I was supposed to secure the apartment. Ishould’ve. But I hadn’t.Had I?

I’d gotten too comfortable, toocareless.

And now I’m staring at crimson chaos with no center. Is it his blood?

My breath catches—too loud. My limbs already in motion, muscle memory kicking in before my brain can catch up. A flash of movement near the kitchen—too fluid to be accidental. A shadow gliding along the wall.

Hewantsme to see him.

I lunge. A takedown maneuver I’ve executed a hundred times. But something’s off. I hit the intruder—feel his weight buckle—but then I crash into him like I’ve slammed into a wall.

Solid.

He doesn’t stumble.

Instead, we go down together—and now I’m on top of him, straddling him in a blur of instinct. Black clothes. Blackbalaclava. His eyes glint with something manic that makes my gut twist.

He’ssmiling.

I swing. Fist to face. Connect. But there’s no reaction. It’s like punching wet clay.

I swing again. Slower.Sluggish. Each strike weaker than the last. I feel it now—my limbs draining, as though something inside me is unraveling.

Drugged?

No.No, I was fine a minute ago. I didn’t eat anything suspicious. Didn’t drink—

A second too long. That’s all he needs.

He twists, and suddenly I’m pinned. Hard. My back slams into the floor. His weight bears down, iron pressing me into tile.

I try to squirm, to throw my legs—but they won’t move. My arms won’t lift.

And then—

CRACK.