As I started to pull away, he touched my wrist with his fingers. Not grabbing—just resting there, warm and sure against my pulse point. His thumb brushed across the tendon.
I knew that I should ask who he was. It would have been wise to demand to know what kind of trouble he was bringing into my home.
Instead, I watched the rise and fall of his breathing, and how his eyelids grew heavy as exhaustion finally replaced fading adrenaline.
I reached for the blanket draped over the back of the couch—soft wool that Ma had knitted years ago, back when she still believed I might settle down and need domestic touches. I shook it out and settled it over the man's chest, tucking the edges around his shoulders.
His eyes opened one more time, finding mine in the dim lamplight. "Matthew."
I didn't know his name, but he said mine like it meant something.
"Yeah?"
He didn't say more. His eyes had already closed, and his breathing deepened into the rhythm of real sleep. His hand slipped away from my wrist, fingers curling against his chest under the blanket.
I should've felt relief. Instead, I felt the quiet press of something else. Not fear exactly. Not yet. It was the knowledge that I'd invited a stranger into my home, and now there was no turning back.
I stayed there momentarily, kneeling beside the couch, watching the steady movement of the wool rising and falling with each breath. His face had relaxed completely, erasing the tension carved into his features since he'd appeared on my doorstep.
And suddenly, I saw Farid. I'd failed him. I hadn't been fast enough. And now someone else was bleeding in my apartment, trusting me again.
Somewhere above me, the faint murmur of Mrs. Kaminski's television resumed—some late-night courtroom drama humming through the ceiling.
Life was still happening outside this room. But in my apartment, I'd made a choice I couldn't undo.
After I turned off the lamp, it left only the kitchen light to cast long shadows across the living room. The weight of what I'dchosen settled over me in the darkness. I'd crossed a line when I pulled a stranger inside and locked the door behind us.
Chapter four
Dorian
The blanket tangled around my legs was wrong—wool, not synthetic; too soft, too clean. Hand-knitted, with irregular patterns where someone's attention had momentarily faltered.
I didn't open my eyes immediately. That would be a rookie mistake. Instead, I focused on what my other senses revealed. Traces of antiseptic, cedar, and spice drifted in the air. The latter were male scents, not institutional.
A dull ache spread through my ribs, held slightly at bay by tightly wrapped bandages. Sutures pulled with each breath, but the heat of infection hadn't settled in. Not yet. I'd survived worse.
Unified memories coalesced out of fragments. The hospital escape. The rain. The doorway where I'd nearly collapsed.
McCabe. Matthew.
I opened my eyes and gazed at a ceiling of exposed ductwork and industrial beams. It was a warehouse conversion—tall windows with metal frames.
A morning glow filtered through wooden blinds, casting ladder-like shadows across the brick walls and hardwood floor. The worn leather couch beneath me creaked with every move.
Raising my head slightly, I spotted an exit door, heavy with multiple locks. No obvious cameras. No monitoring equipment. No weapons visible.
The absence of immediate danger unsettled me more than waking in restraints would have. There was always a cost—if not now, then later.
I tried to push myself upright and failed as my body reminded me how far I'd pushed it. Three tries later, I managed to prop myself against the armrest, sweating from the effort.
Then, I heard him.
Footsteps approached from around a corner—unhurried, bare feet slapping against hardwood. I didn't sense any attempt at stealth. It was a man walking through his home.
Matthew appeared, carrying a steaming ceramic mug. He raked his free hand through dark hair still damp from a shower. He wore a soft black t-shirt that had seen better days and flannel pajama pants hanging loose at his hips.
He had a powerful build—broad shoulders filling the shirt and veiny forearms. A faint, pale scar marked his jawline, catching light when he turned his head.
