Chapter 5

"Get a grip, Tilly."

I bolted from the rooftop, my pulse still jackhammering in my ears. My steps were uneven—half a stumble, half a sprint—like my body couldn’t decide whether to flee or collapse. The stairwell was a tunnel of shadows, and I practically tripped down the last few steps before slamming into the elevator button, jabbing it with too much force.

A moment later, the doors dinged open, and I threw myself inside, my fingers hovering over the panel like I’d forgotten how to use buttons. Lobby. Just get to the lobby.

The doors shut, and for a few long seconds, I was alone, trapped in a tiny metal box with my reflection—wide-eyed, flushed, shaken. I swallowed, my mouth dry.

Then the doors opened.

A few people stood in the lobby, checking their phones, chatting, and existing like the night wasn’t wrong somehow. I exhaled hard, tension loosening just a fraction as I stepped into the light. I wasn’t alone anymore.

And yet, when I hit the sidewalk outside Valmont H2, cold sweat still clung to me. My breath came short, uneven. Because for the first time in a long time, I had been scared of the dark. Not just wary. Scared.

And I didn’t scare easy.

I yanked my sweater tighter around me, forcing my feet forward. Where to go? Home felt like a death trap. Empty. Lonely. Full of Xavier’s ghost.

So I did the only logical thing a slightly traumatized, emotionally unhinged person could do—I found the nearest dive bar with a flickering Open sign and staggered inside.

Nachos. Tequila. More tequila. I knocked the shots back too fast, welcoming the burn, willing it to drown out the adrenaline still sizzling in my bloodstream. The plan was to get drunk. Go home. Pass out. Pretend the night never happened.

After an hour, I staggered back outside. The street swayed slightly under my feet. Not a full-on earthquake, just a little tequila-induced instability. No big deal. I could still walk and still function. Sort of.

Then, headlights flared—too close, too fast. Suddenly, a black car screeched, tires biting pavement, and I lost my footing, crashing onto the sidewalk, palms scraping raw.

The driver jumped out, a blurry figure in a dark coat. “Are you okay? I didn’t see you—”

“I’m drunk, you’re not,” I snapped, pushing myself up, wobbly but mad. “You have the bigger responsibility here, jackass.”

He hesitated, then jogged back to the car. I turned to limp off, but he called after me. “Wait—you’re drunk. Let me drive you home.”

I spun around, squinting. “I don’t know you. Why the hell would I trust you?”

“Because you’re falling over yourself,” he said. “You’re not safe out here. I’m not a creep—I just don’t want you dead.”

I glared, but my legs wobbled, and the tequila fog agreed he had a point. “Fine,” I muttered, staggering to the car. He opened the back door, and I slid in, the leather cool against my skin.

Then I saw him—a man in the backseat, half-shadowed. My heart thudded, hard and sudden. The tequila haze blurred him, but God, he was gorgeous—sharp jaw, dark hair, and eyes so pale blue they glowed like ice under moonlight. I blinked, breath catching.

The driver slid into the front seat and glanced back. “What’s your name, miss? Where do you live?”

I bristled, crossing my arms. “I’m not giving you my name or my address. Drop me at the train station—end of story.”

Before he could argue, the pale-eyed man spoke, his voice smooth and smug, dripping with arrogance. “You heard the pet, Tony. To the train station.”

“Pet?” I whipped my head toward him, nausea bubbling up with the tequila. “Who the hell do you call pet? Do I look like a damn poodle to you?.”

He smirked, leaning back like he owned the car, the city, and me by extension. “Oh, you’re a feisty one. Relax, pet—it’s just a term of endearment. You’re stumbling around like a lost kitten; I’m doing you a favor.”

“A favor?” I laughed, sharp and bitter, my stomach churning harder. “What’s next, a leash?”

His pale eyes glinted, amused. “Only if you ask nicely. I’m generous like that—saving damsels who can’t walk straight.”

“Damsel?” I lurched forward, jabbing a finger at his stupid, smug face. The car tilted in my vision, but I held my ground. “I could run circles around you if I wasn’t five shots deep, you condescending ass.”

Yeah, yeah—he owned the damn car. Whatever. That didn’t mean I had to roll over and play nice. I didn’t even ask for this ride. They offered.

He chuckled—low, slow, and infuriating. “Five shots and you’re legs are already wobbly you can’t walk straight. Amateur.” His smirk curled at the edges, all effortless arrogance. “I can offer something more that won’t make you walk in days, sweetheart. But please—keep barking. It’s charming.”

“Adorable?” My voice spiked, sharp as a dagger. “Call me that again, and I swear to God, I’ll puke all over your overpriced leather just to watch you squirm.”

He only smirked wider, the bastard. “Go on, then. I’d love to see you try.” He shifted, sliding closer across the backseat, the leather creaking under him.

Too close now—way too close.

Before I could snap back, his hands were on me—cold fingers brushing my jaw, then cupping my face with a grip that was firm but teasing, like he knew exactly how it’d mess with me.

A shiver shot down my spine, sharp and unwanted, lighting up every nerve. His breath ghosted over my cheek—cold— warm and and his eyes locked on mine, deep, peeling me open like he could see every wild, stupid thought racing through my head.

And God, did I have thoughts.

Kiss him—hard, messy, tongue and all. Climb over him, straddle him, dig my fingers into that perfectly combed hair and wreck it ‘til he groaned. My pulse hammered, heat pooling low in my gut.

What the hell was wrong with me?

He tilted his head, smirking like he’d caught me plotting. One thumb grazed my lower lip, slow and deliberate, sending a jolt straight through me.

“What’s that look, huh?” he murmured, voice dropping lower, rougher. “Thinking about it, aren’t you?” His knee nudged mine, a lazy bump that felt anything but accidental, and his other hand slid to my neck, fingers brushing the sensitive spot just under my ear.

My breath hitched—loud, traitorously loud.

I jerked back, but not far—he’d boxed me in, the car’s plush interior suddenly too small.

“Get off me,” I breathed, shoving at his chest, but my hands lingered a beat too long, feeling the hard muscle under his shirt. Damn it.

“Do you really want me to, though?” He leaned in again, closer still, his lips hovering an inch from mine, teasing without touching. “You’re blushing, pet.” His fingers tightened on my neck, just enough to make my skin buzz, and his knee pressed firmer against mine, a slow drag that sent sparks up my thigh.

My brain fritzed, a tangle of want and rage short-circuiting everything. I could feel the pull, and—oh no. Before I could spiral any further, my stomach violently disagreed with whatever was happening. A hot, sour wave surged up my throat. My breath hitched.

Oh, no.

Wine, nachos, and tequila erupted out of me in a hot, wet explosion. It splattered across the backseat, soaking the pristine leather and—oh, sweet mercy—drenching his stupid, perfect, probably handmade shoes in a glorious, stinking mess.

My world spun, my limbs turning heavy and useless. I caught one last glimpse of his face—shock slamming into that smug amusement before the edges blurred black.

I passed out.