Page 124 of Twisted Devotion

I don’t know which possibility unsettles me more.

As the cab pulls away, I cradle my throbbing shoulder, blinking back tears that threaten to spill. I miss Nicolas. Even if he had nothing to do with saving me—even if it’s just my own paranoia or desperate hope—I want him here. I want his arms around me, the steadiness of his voice telling me I’m safe, the familiar scent of his cologne grounding me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the ache in my chest to stay contained.

When I get home, I lock the door. Once. Twice. A third time. Then I crawl into bed, exhaustion dragging me under before I can think too much.

* * *

Morning comes, but the tension in my body doesn’t fade. My shoulder throbs as I push myself out of bed, my legs unsteady beneath me.

In the kitchen, I start a pot of coffee, watching the water heat as my thoughts circle back to last night. I suspected someone had intervened. Maybe I imagined it. Maybe the man simply ran off.

A part of me wants to believe Nicolas had a hand in saving me. Another part feels uneasy at that thought. He once told me he keeps an eye on what belongs to him.

A quiet, bitter laugh escapes me. I left him for a reason. But my heart doesn’t seem to care. I miss him. Every hour.

A sharp ring shatters the quiet. My mug nearly slips from my fingers.

The doorbell.

My pulse jumps. For a second, I consider ignoring it—letting whoever it is give up and walk away. But the bell rings again, more insistent this time.

My mind leaps to the only possibility that makes sense. Nicolas.

I set my coffee aside, standing frozen and staring at the door. My chest tightens, anticipation and uncertainty tangling together.

Then the ringing stops. Heavy silence follows.

A second later, I hear the doorknob rattle. My breath catches. My stomach twists.

I forgot—the lock is old, easy to force open.

I hurry forward, expecting to see him, my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

But it’s not Nicolas.

Teresa steps into the living room.

Her dark hair is braided tightly, accentuating the age lines on her face. She wears a plain skirt and blouse, both neat but simple. Her expression is calm, unreadable, as she meets my gaze.

She says nothing at first. Instead, she steps inside and closes the door gently behind her.

I swallow the disappointment tightening my chest and fold my arms.

“You’re hurt,” she observes, her gaze flicking to the bruises on my arms.

I tense. “I’m fine.”

“Boss sent me.” She doesn’t useNicolas—but I know who she means.

My heart twists. “Why?”

She holds herself with quiet poise, hands resting at her sides, shoulders squared. “He’s worried. He heard something happened.”

Her eyes drift to the bruises again.

I let out a short, bitter laugh. “He cares from a distance, it seems.”

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