I spotted her in the courtyard, sitting alone on a bench, her face tilted up toward the night sky. She looked younger in that moment, more vulnerable. More human.
Something twisted in my chest—an unfamiliar sensation that I quickly suppressed. This wasn't about emotion. This was about possession.
I approached silently, watching her for a moment before speaking.
"You look lost in thought."
Her eyes snapped open, that electric blue gaze finding mine immediately. Recognition flashed across her face, though we'd never formally met. She felt it too—this pull between us, this inevitability.
"I'm not lost," she replied, her voice steady despite the slight increase in her breathing. "Just taking a break."
I stepped closer, allowing the moonlight to illuminate my face. Let her see me. Let her remember me.
Her eyes widened slightly as she took me in, her gaze traveling from my face to my shoulders to my hands before returning to meet my eyes. Assessing. Cataloging. Looking for threats and exits.
Smart girl.
"The club can be overwhelming for first-timers," I said, keeping my voice low, intimate, as if we were sharing a secret.
She raised an eyebrow, a small act of defiance that pleased me. "What makes you think it's my first time?"
I allowed myself a small smile. "You don't belong here."
It wasn't an insult, but a recognition. She was different from the other patrons—sharper, more aware, a diamond among glass.
"Neither do you," she countered, surprising me with her perception.
My smile widened. "No, I don't. But for different reasons."
Before she could respond, the door to the club opened, spilling light and noise into our private moment. Her friend—Lila Winters, according to the file—stumbled out, calling Grace's name.
I melted back into the shadows, watching as Grace searched for me, the confusion on her face quickly masked as she spoke to her friend. When they went back inside, I followed at a distance, observing as Grace made her excuses and called for a car.
Perfect.
I circled around to the front entrance, timing my reappearance for maximum impact. She was standing alone at the curb, arms wrapped around herself against the chill, scanning the shadows as if she could sense my presence.
"Looking for someone?" I asked, enjoying the way she startled, the quick flash of fear and recognition in her eyes.
"My ride," she said, her voice admirably steady. "It should be here soon."
I nodded, maintaining a respectful distance. Not threatening. Not yet. "It's not safe for a woman to wait alone at this hour."
"I can take care of myself."
I had no doubt she could. The daughter of Patrick O'Sullivan would have been taught self-defense from an early age. But physical prowess meant nothing against the right kind of predator.
"I'm sure you can," I said, allowing a hint of amusement to color my tone. "But the world is full of predators, Grace."
There it was—the shock, the fear, the sudden tension in her body as she realized I knew who she was. Her real name. Her real identity.
"How do you?—"
"Your Uber is here," I interrupted, nodding toward the approaching car.
She glanced at the vehicle, then back at me, clearly torn between fleeing and demanding answers. The conflict played across her face, beautiful in its transparency.
"Who are you?" she finally asked, the question barely audible.
