Beyond the trees looms the mansion on the hill. An urban legend. A ghost story. Haunted, they say. Perfect. No one will look for me there.
A strangled sound escapes me, and I realize I'm shaking. Hawk's expression shifts, hard features softening almost imperceptibly.
“Who hurt you?” It doesn’t even sound like a question. His voice has gone dangerously quiet.
I want to tell him, but I know better.You think anyone in this town will take your word over mine?
Iwrap my arms around myself, fingers digging into the damp fabric of my sweater. "It doesn't matter."
"It matters." The two words come out like a promise. Or a threat.
He moves, and I flinch, but he's only reaching for something on the table beside us. A bottle of water, which he offers to me, cap already loosened. I hesitate before taking it, our fingers brushing momentarily. His are calloused, warm against my ice-cold skin.
"Why this place?” he asks as I sip the water, the cool liquid soothing my parched throat.
I stare at the floor. "Everyone thinks it's haunted. I didn’t think anyone would look for me here.”
"Smart." There's something like approval in his voice. "But dangerous. This place is in disrepair. It’s falling apart. How’d you get in?”
I flinch at his question. “I was able to jimmy the lock on one of the back doors.” I lift my eyes to his apologetically.
Something passes between us in that moment—understanding, maybe. His eyes narrow slightly, studying me with an intensity that should feel intrusive but doesn't.
“What, exactly are you running from?” He crosses his arms, tattoos shifting with the movement. Birds of prey, I realize. The artwork is beautiful.
My chest tightens. If there’s one lesson I’ve learned over and over, it’s to trust no one. Men like my uncle Vincent and Marco wear masks of respectability while underneath they’re manipulative, controlling monsters. But this man—Hawk—wears his danger openly. There's something honest and true in that.
"My fiancé," I finally say. "Ex-fiancé. I ended it. He didn't take it well."
Hawk's jaw clenches. "He do that to your face?"
My fingers touch the bruise blooming along my cheekbone, and I nod.
"He coming after you?" His question seems casual, but there's nothing casual about the way Hawk's shoulders tense.
“Probably." The word barely escapes my throat. “Yes. Definitely. He... he has connections. Resources."
Hawk watches me for a long moment, calculation in his gaze. "Got a name? This ex of yours."
I swallow hard. "Marco." Even saying his name makes my skin crawl. I offer nothing more, and Hawk doesn't press.
"Listen," he says, voice lowered as he crouches down, bringing himself to my eye level. It should make him less intimidating. It doesn't. "I've got an apartment above my shop in town. You can crash there tonight, get yourself sorted."
“You’ll help me?” I blink at him, stunned. "Why?"
"Maybe I don't like men who hit women." His expression darkens. "Maybe I’m a sucker for a damsel in distress. Take your pick."
"I don't have money," I admit. "I can't pay you."
"Not asking for payment."
It’s not as though I’m in a position to refuse. Still, trust doesn’t come easy. Not for me.
"Everyone wants something." The words slip out before I can stop them, bitter from experience.
His eyes harden. "I'm not everyone."
I think of the anger that flashed in his eyes as his gaze ran over my battered face and wonder if perhaps it won’t be a mistake to trust this man. Maybe he truly does just want to help.
