The first thing I noticed when I opened my eyes was that the ceiling wasn't mine.
It was too high, too white and looked too perfect without the scrapes starting to fall off on mine. The faint hum of air conditioning filled the silence, and the sheets beneath me weren't the scratchy cotton I owned and was used to but soft, heavy and looked expensive. Panic shot through me so fast it made me dizzy.
I sat up in a rush. My head pounded, and my cheek burned where the bullet had grazed me. Memories came crashing back men at the door, the gun, the blood, and whoever punched me, Christ that hurt like a bitch.
My stomach lurched.
I stumbled off the bed and ran to the door. The knob was cold under my hands. I twisted, yanked, shoved. Nothing, it was Locked.
"Hey!" My voice cracked, breaking with desperation. "Hey, let me out! Please!"
I slammed my fists against the wood until they stung, the sound echoing in the empty room. Nobody answered. Nobody came. The silence pressed in until it felt like the walls were closing on me.
I slid down against the door, my legs folding beneath me. Tears burned at the back of my eyes, spilling before I could stop them. I hugged my knees to my chest, rocking slightly like that could hold me together. My body ached. My heart hurt wven worse.
Why was this happening to me? What did they want?
The room stayed silent, until....
A sound like metal turning and the faint scrape of a key sliding into the lock.
My heart stopped. I shifted away from the door.
The knob twisted, and the door opened with a soft click.
And then he was there.
The man who stepped inside wasn't like the ones who had dragged me here. He wasn't hulking or brutish. He was… just impossible.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Muscles filling out the sharp lines of his black suit like it had been stitched for him alone. His hair was the darkest black I'd ever seen, thick and perfectly kept, like something out of a magazine. I had this irresistible urge to run my fingers through it just to mess it up and feel it sliding through my fingers like silk .And his eyes—God, his eyes—icy blue, cutting straight through me like they could see everything I was, everything I wanted to hide.
For a second, I forgot to breathe but I quickly got back my composure.
"What the hell is this? What am I doing here?" My voice cracked, half-scream, half-plea.
He didn't answer. His gaze swept over me, sharp and furious, lingering on my face and stopping on my cheek.
His jaw tightened. "Who touched you?" His voice was deep, smooth, but under it simmered something lethal.
"What?" My voice faltered.
"Who," he repeated, slower, colder, "touched you?"
I scrambled back a little, my back pressing against the bed. "The men. Four of them. They…..they broke into my apartment. They dragged me here. Please, just let me go. I don't belong here."
I was shaking, my fingers gripping the sheets like they could anchor me.
But instead of answering, he stepped closer. His presence filled the room, filled me with equal parts fear and something else I didn't even know what to name it.
His hand lifted. I flinched, but he didn't hit me. He didn't grab me. He reached out with surprising gentleness, the back of his knuckles brushing against my cheek. Right where the skin was torn, where the blood had dried up.
My breath caught.
"Whoever laid a hand on you," he murmured, his eyes burning into mine, "will answer to me."