CHAPTER TWO

The sharp sound of shattering glass jolted me awake.

My heart slammed against my ribcage, a frantic rhythm that echoed in my ears as I jolted upright. The once quiet room was now thick with an unsettling stillness, the kind that made the hairs on the back of my neck rise. Shadows stretched across the walls, shifting with the faint flicker of the streetlights filtering through the partially drawn curtains. Each breath I took was uneven, shuddering past my lips as my chest rose and fell in rapid succession.

Disoriented, my mind struggled to piece together the moments leading up to this instant—what had disturbed my sleep? A noise? A presence? Or just the lingering tendrils of an anxious dream?

I swallowed hard, willing myself to steady the erratic pounding in my chest, but a gnawing sense of unease curled deep in my stomach. Something wasn’t right.

The broken window.

The realization sent a shiver down my spine.

Had the wind knocked it loose? Or—

A groan.

Low, pained.

Not from me.

My head snapped toward the source.

A figure loomed in the darkness, half-slumped against the wall near the shattered window. The dim light revealed the broad shape of a man, his breathing ragged. His dark clothes were torn, and as my eyes adjusted, I saw the faint glisten of something wet on his arm. Blood.

I barely had time to react before he moved—too fast despite his injury.

A powerful, unyielding hand clamped over my mouth, smothering the terrified scream that had barely begun to rise in my throat. Panic surged through me like a violent current, my body reacting on pure instinct. I thrashed wildly, my legs kicking out in a desperate attempt to break free, my fingernails digging into the rough skin of his wrist. But his grip was immovable—unyielding like steel shackles locking me in place.

His presence was overwhelming, a solid mass of strength pressing against me, trapping me in a suffocating hold. The scent of him—faintly metallic, with a trace of something musky and unfamiliar—invaded my senses, making my stomach churn. My pulse pounded relentlessly, the blood roaring in my ears as fear seized every muscle in my body.

“Relax,” a deep voice rasped against my ear, the warmth of his breath brushing over my skin in a way that sent a violent shudder down my spine. His tone was firm yet laced with something strained, something almost… weary. As if holding me like this was taking just as much out of him as it was out of me.

I didn’t relax. I couldn’t.

Every instinct screamed at me to fight, to scream, to do something—anything—to get away. But his grip only tightened in silent warning.

“I won’t hurt you.” The words were low, deliberate. A promise or a lie—I couldn’t tell.

I didn’t believe him.

My body went rigid, every muscle locking up as raw terror coiled in my gut. My mind raced, grasping for an escape, for some way out of this nightmare.

He let out a slow, measured breath. “Promise me you won’t scream if I let you go.”

I hesitated.

He wasn’t out of breath. He wasn’t struggling to restrain me. He was hurt.

The realization cut through my panic, forcing me to think beyond my fear.

I swallowed hard, my throat constricting as I forced myself to meet his gaze—what little I could see of it in the dim lighting. Dark, unreadable eyes bored into mine, waiting. Expecting.

I gave a frantic nod.

Slowly, his hand loosened. The moment I was free, I scrambled backward, pressing myself against the headboard. My fingers fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, but before I could grab it, he took a step closer.

“Don’t,” he warned.

His posture wasn’t aggressive, but there was an undeniable weight to his presence, something dangerous humming beneath his exhaustion.

“Who the hell are you?” My voice shook despite my effort to steady it.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he swayed slightly, his body betraying his weakness. He clutched his arm, his jaw tightening as he exhaled through his nose.

“I’m sorry for breaking in,” he finally muttered. “I just needed a place to hide.”

“Hide?” My skin prickled. “From who?”

A humorless smirk touched his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “From worse people than me.”

I swallowed hard, my grip tightening around the edge of the blanket.

His shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of whatever he had escaped pressing down on him. “I won’t touch you. I just…” He swayed again, his strength waning. “Just needed a place to breathe.”

Before I could process his words, he groaned and collapsed against the wall, sliding down to the floor.

Instinct battled logic. He was injured. Clearly struggling. But he was also a stranger who had just broken into my room.

I should have called for help. Should have run.

But instead—

“Are you hurt?”

The words slipped out before I could stop them.

His head lolled slightly, dark eyes flicking up to meet mine. There was surprise in them, as if he hadn’t expected kindness. As if the concept was foreign to him.

He nodded once, slow and deliberate. “Yeah… got stabbed.”

The air between us grew heavier. Fear still gripped me, my instincts screaming at me to run, to call for help. But something in his voice—his exhaustion, his pain—made me hesitate.

He was injured. Vulnerable.

A part of me wished I could ignore it, pretend he wasn’t sitting there bleeding into my carpet. But I couldn’t.

“Wait here.”

My legs were shaky as I climbed out of bed, keeping my eyes on him as I moved toward the door. My body was still tense, every nerve on high alert, but he made no move to stop me.

The hallway was dim, the only light coming from a flickering bulb near the stairwell. Mounted on the wall was a small emergency first aid kit. I fumbled with the latch, nearly dropping it in my rush.

By the time I returned, he was in the same spot, his back resting against the wall, his breathing slow but uneven. His jaw was tight, his fingers curled near his side, as if he were fighting to stay conscious.

I slid the kit toward him, keeping a cautious distance.

He exhaled sharply, the faintest trace of relief crossing his face as he reached for it. His fingers were unsteady, and when he tried to peel back the fabric of his torn sleeve, a sharp hiss escaped him.

Guilt pricked at me. He was hurt, and here I was, treating him like a criminal.

Even if that’s exactly what he might be.

“Let me help,” I muttered, inching closer.

His dark eyes met mine, searching, measuring. Then, after a beat, he gave a small nod.

I knelt beside him, flipping open the kit and switching on my phone’s flashlight. The wound on his arm was ugly—an angry, deep gash that had already soaked through his shirt. Blood streaked his skin, dark and glistening in the dim light.

“This is going to sting,” I warned.

He huffed a dry laugh. “Not my first wound, sweetheart.”

I ignored the nickname and focused on the task at hand. Carefully, I dabbed at the wound with an antiseptic wipe. He barely flinched, but I caught the slight twitch of his jaw, the way his muscles tensed beneath my touch.

“You’re lucky,” I muttered, pressing a little harder than necessary. “This could’ve been a lot worse.”

His lips quirked slightly, though there was no real humor in his expression. “You have no idea.”

I didn’t ask.

As I worked, the silence between us stretched, thick with unspoken questions. Who was he? Why was he here? What had he done to get stabbed?

I wasn’t sure I wanted the answers.

“So,” I said, needing something to break the tension. “Mugged in a dark alley?”

His smirk was faint, barely there. “Something like that.”

I could tell he wasn’t going to elaborate.

After securing the bandage around his arm, I sat back on my heels, watching him carefully. His shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him.

“You need stitches,” I murmured.

He sighed, resting his head against the wall. “I’ll survive.”

The words were so casual, so certain, as if he had been through worse. As if pain was just another part of his life.

A strange silence settled over us.

I knew I should still be afraid. Should be yelling for help, demanding answers, doing anything other than sitting here, helping a stranger who had broken into my room.

And yet…

“What happens now?” I finally asked.

He glanced at me, his gaze unreadable. “I just need a few hours. I won’t take your bed. Just let me rest here.”

My instincts screamed at me to say no.

But there was something about him—the way he sat there, worn down yet still composed, injured yet still exuding a quiet strength—that made me hesitate.

I should have told him to leave.

Should have been smarter.

But instead—

“Fine,” I muttered. “But if you try anything—”

His smirk returned, just a flicker of amusement in his tired eyes. “You’ll stab me?”

“Exactly.”

For the first time, the tension in the room eased. Just a little.

I climbed back into bed, keeping my phone gripped in my hand. Sleep didn’t come easy. Every few minutes, I cracked one eye open, half-expecting him to make a move.

But he didn’t.

He stayed slumped. against the wall, his breathing deep and steady, his body finally giving in to exhaustion.

And when the first rays of dawn peeked through the broken window—

He was gone.