Alex stood up fast, his chair scraping back hard. His heart thundered in his chest. Every alarm inside him was screaming now. He scanned the room like a detective and a soldier and a man who just realized the woman he loved had been targeted.
“Did you check the locks?”
“They were still bolted.”
“The security system?”
“On… never went off.”
“Camera footage?”
She shook her head helplessly. “Nothing.”
He looked around again, eyes flicking from window to door, trying to find a crack in her story because that would be easier. That would mean she was wrong. That this hadn’t really happened. But everything told him it had.
The doors were secure. The windows were locked. No broken glass. No pry marks. No signs of forced entry.
Whoever had been inside knew what they were doing. Knew her layout. Knew her. The only logical explanation was chilling—he hadn’t broken in. He’d already been inside before they locked up for the night.
Alex’s stomach twisted into a tighter knot he couldn’t undo.
This wasn’t random. This wasn’t reckless. This was surgical. Someone had walked into her house, stood over her while she slept, and left behind a message that cut straight to her core.
And she hadn’t made a sound.
He looked at her again, really looked. She wasn’t trembling. She wasn’t crying. But she was splintering in slow motion.
And for the first time since he’d met her, Alex Marcel had no idea how to protect her. Not from this. Not from whoever or whatever had just declared war.
After clearing her basement and the first floor, Alex moved to the second floor with Charlotte on his heels. His eyes dropped to the floor in the hallway. A set of muddy footprints led out of Charlotte’s bedroom.
His jaw tightened. He crouched, reaching out to brush his fingers lightly against one of the prints. The dirt was dry now, but it was wet when it was tracked inside.
"You didn’t notice these?"
Charlotte’s voice was quiet. "Not at first."
Alex followed the trail with his eyes. They led out of her bedroom, but there were no footprints leading in.
His stomach turned. "Charlotte," he said carefully, “whoever did this was standing over you while you slept."
Her jaw tensed. "I know."
Alex ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply. He crouched in front of her again, this time slower, his expression drawn tight with everything he wasn’t saying. His voice came quieter now, but it caught slightly on the words. “Did they hurt you?”
Not accusing. Not angry. Just that raw, unfiltered fear, the kind that only comes when you love someone and picture the worst.
Charlotte shook her head once. “No.”
His shoulders dropped, just slightly. Not in relief, but in restraint. He was holding something back—rage, panic. "Okay," he said, more to himself than her. "Okay. Nothing was taken?"
"Not that I can tell."
Alex’s hands curled into fists. This wasn’t a random break-in. This wasn’t about stealing or violence. This was about her.
He straightened, moving through the house. He checked the doors, the windows, the alarm panel—everything she had already checked. It was all secure.
If they wanted to hurt her, they would have. They wanted to leave a message. They wanted her to know they had been here.
