Page 22 of Twisted Steel

I know because I’m staring at my phone, waiting for her to text, when it happens.I’m not sleeping and not even trying.Sleep is for men who don’t have enemies circling a woman’s apartment while she pretends she can handle danger with sarcasm and a broken window latch.

Her name lights up the screen, and my blood goes cold.

I answer before the first ring finishes.“Harper.”

Breathing.Fast.Controlled but wrong.Like she’s trying to make panic behave, and it keeps slipping its leash.

“There’s someone at my window.”

The world narrows.Not to fear, fear is too slow.This is purpose.

“Where are you?”

“In my bedroom.”

“Is the door locked?”

“Yes.”

“And the lights?”

“They’re off,” she says softly.

“Good girl.”The words are out before I can kill them.

Silence snaps tight over the line.Even now, even scared, she has enough fire left to hate that.

“Don’t start with me,” she whispers, and the corner of my mouth moves into an almost smile.

“Not starting.Stay away from the window.”

“Really?Because I was about to invite him in for tea.”There she is.Sharp mouth.Shaking voice.Spine still made of steel.

I’m already moving, boots on, gun tucked into my waistband, cut over my shoulders, and keys in my fist.

“Bedroom closet,” I say.“Get inside.Close the door.Don’t hang up.”

“I’m not hiding in my closet,” she hisses.

“You are.”

“No.”

I stop at my bike, jaw locked so hard it hurts.“Harper.”

“Don’t use that voice.”

“Then listen the first time.”

Another tap comes through the phone.Soft but deliberate, and my vision goes red at the edges.Her breath catches, and that sound does something bad to me.Something primitive.Something that doesn’t care about club politics or restraint or whether the men outside her building are useful alive.

“Closet,” I say again, lower, and this time, she moves.

I hear it, bare feet on floorboards, a door creaking, fabric rustling, and her breath too loud in my ear.

“Okay,” she whispers.“I’m in.”

“Sit down.”