Page 25 of Desperate People

Because that’s what this was, right? A warning.

He was in here.

He was in my home.

He walked across my floors, broke my things, defiled the place I sleep.

He touched my fucking bed.

I think I might scream.

I want to call the police. I should call the police. That’s the logical thing to do.

But I don’t.

I should call my dad. My uncles. Any of the Volkov men who’d show up armed and enraged.

But I don’t do that either.

Because there’s only one name in my head.

One person I want to come for me—not just to protect me, but to obliterate whoever did this.

To burn the world down if that’s what it takes to make me feel safe again.

Balor Cruz.

My fingers are already unlocking the phone, my thumb hovering for just a second over his contact—one I swore I wouldn’t use again, one I couldn’t bring myself to delete.

I hit call.

And hold my breath.

Because I hope with everything in me—once he hears my voice, once he knows what’s been done—that he’ll come for me.

I should care about how this looks. I should be worried about sounding desperate, about dialing the man who already made it clear he didn’t want me.

But none of that matters right now.

Because I’m scared. Because I’m alone.

Because someone broke into my home and defiled my space.

So I call him.

And with every ring, my chest gets tighter. My heart pounds like it’s trying to break free, and I don’t even realize I’ve stopped breathing until—click.

“Lucy?” His voice.

Balor picked up.

Thank God.

My knees almost buckle with relief. Just hearing him—rough, low, clipped—makes something inside me unravel.

It sounds like I woke him. Or maybe—God, maybe he was already up. Was he with someone? Does he hate me?

I shove the thoughts down.

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