Page 36 of Problematic

She shot to her feet.

“Hello?” Her voice cracked. She sounded young and furious and terrified all at once. “Who are you?”

The table was between us now. She tripped over the blanket, grabbed at the edge, caught herself. Her gaze swung wildly across the room, searching corners my presence used to hide in long before tonight.

I felt her eyes sweep right over me as I flattened against the wall, shadows thick around my shoulders.

She was breathing fast. Heart pounding. Adrenaline flooding her system. Every instinct I had screamed at me to step out, to soothe it, to fix what I broke and drag whatever scared her into the hallway and rip its throat out.

Unfortunately, I was what scared her.

“I will call the Guard,” she said, voice high. “I swear to god, I’m not kidding, I’ll call . . .”

She saw the roses on the counter.

Her words died.

She stared at the glass, at the twin blooms, something complicated twisting her face.

I took the opening.

Back door, two steps, hand on the cheap lock. It was worse than the front. One hard shove and it gave. Cold stairwell air hit my mask as I slipped out and pulled the door silently closed behind me.

The bond fought me the whole way. Every step away from that shitty little couch and that ridiculous panda hoodie felt like walking away from something I was never supposed to leave.

Inside, behind me, I felt her move.

She rushed to the front door and checked the deadbolt, the chain, rattled the door just to double-check. Her hands shook. I saw her sag against it in my mind, her forehead pressed to the wood. The information the bond provided was incredible.

I hit the alley, teeth clenched, fingers fisted. The ward hummed faintly through the wall, doing its job, keeping every other monster out.

Not me.

Never me.

I put my back to the brick and dragged in a breath I didn’t need. The city was quiet here, just the buzz of a streetlight and the distant whoosh of a tram.

Upstairs, she was turning all the lights on. Calling somebody. Mandi, probably. Or Sam. Anyone who would tell her she wasn’t crazy, that it was just a dream, that nobody really broke into her apartment and stood over her while she slept.

I swallowed down the urge to go back up there and swear on every hell I knew that she was safe. That nobody got to touch her while I breathed.

Coward.

I was good at a lot of things. Killing. Ruling. Making people scream. I was suddenly very bad at this.

At her.

I pushed off the wall and started walking, hood up, mask on, shadows eating my outline as I slid back into the city.

Behind me in a tiny apartment on Harlow, my mate stood in the middle of her living room with a pounding heart, two roses in a glass, and the first clear confirmation that someone had been coming into her life uninvited.

She would know I’d been there.

She wouldn’t know who I was.

Not yet.

The bond thrummed under my skin.