The name hits him like another knee to the groin, but he reigns his emotions in with calculated practice.
Brian's expression shifts—his eyes going from animal rage to something cold and clinical. The transformation is more terrifying than his anger.
"You think you're the first to try putting up a fight?" His voice drops to a smooth, indifferent tone. "The Yale bitch wasn't a problem. Sarah Keller wasn't a problem." He straightens his bloody cuffs with methodical precision. "And neither you nor your stalker boyfriend will be a problem."
Stalker boyfriend?
Brian's smile widens, showing perfect teeth. "Oh, did you think you found yourself a good man?" He laughs, a hollow, empty sound. "Your precious Dane has beenwatching you. Set up surveillance equipment in the abandoned building across from your apartment."
My stomach drops. No. He's lying. He has to be.
"And inside your apartment too." Brian's eyes gleam with satisfaction as he sees his words hit their mark. "Cameras. Microphones. Watching you sleep. Watching you shower. Probably jerking off while you undress thinking you're alone."
The pen almost slips from my sweaty palm. A memory flashes—Dane closing the curtains that night he was in my apartment. No. That means nothing.
"You're full of shit," I spit, but my voice lacks conviction.
"Am I?" He shrugs. "The difference between Dane and me," Brian continues, taking a step closer, "is that I'm honest about what I am."
My mind spins, desperate for solid ground. Is this just manipulation? Or, God, could it be true?
Brian lunges forward, his six-foot-plus frame crashing into mine. His hands find my throat again, pinning me against the wall. My skull cracks against the smooth surface, stars exploding behind my eyes.
"You think you're so smart," he hisses, his face inches from mine.
I try to scream but his grip tightens, cutting off the sound before it escapes. My legs kick uselessly as panic drowns me. His body presses against mine, trapping me like an insect pinned to a board.
His free hand yanks at my silk blouse, untucking it from my skirt with savage efficiency. The fabric tears at the seam.
The sound of ripping cloth catapults me back to New Orleans. Something inside me shifts. The panic doesn't disappear, it crystallizes into something else. Something cold and clear and deadly calm.
I stop fighting. My body goes limp, my arms dropping to my sides.
Brian's eyes flash with triumph. He thinks he's won. He thinks I've surrendered. Men like him always believe silence means consent.
The pressure on my throat eases just slightly as he fumbles with my blouse buttons.
My lungs fill with precious oxygen. Each molecule feels like it's preparing me, fueling what comes next. I don't waste energy on fear or disgust. I'm just... waiting.
Brian misreads my stillness for submission, his lips twisting into that entitled smile I've seen on a hundred rich guys as a bartender who think their American Express Black Card means they own whatever they want.
His grip loosens further as he wrestles with my clothing. One hand slides from my throat to grip my shoulder.
And that's when I make my move.
This time, I won't be the victim.
This time, I know exactly what I'm capable of.
This time, I'm taking justice into my own hands.
34
DANE
Imove down the corridor like I've done in a thousand combat scenarios—gun drawn, senses elevated to that hyper-aware state where everything slows down but my mind speeds up. The weight of the Glock feels right in my hand. Familiar. Ready.
Empty offices line both sides. Too empty. The whole floor has that artificial stillness, the kind that screams 'trap.'
