Page 32 of Desperate People

I put a hand on her elbow. Not too tight. Just enough to remind her I’m here.

I walk her to my car with purposeful strides, boots thudding against the tile in a steady, violent rhythm.

I can’t calm down.

My whole body is on heightened alert.

This is New York City. Not some fucking suburb.

It’s still the wee hours of the morning, so yeah, I am fully fucking aware of my surroundings.

My lungs won’t expand fully.

My jaw’s locked so tight my molars ache.

Because tonight, someone got close.

Too fucking close.

Someone walked into her space. Touched her things. Marked her bed.

And that makes this personal.

That makes this war.

“Need me to stop somewhere?” I ask, holding the passenger door open. “Get you anything?”

She blinks up at me, dazed. “What?”

“Do you need anything before we get to my place?” I ask again, slower this time.

“What?” she repeats, like the question doesn’t register.

“You’re staying with me tonight.”

Her brows pull together. “Oh, um, Balor?—”

“No.”

I snap the word and step into her space, close enough to taste her breath.

“No arguments,” I growl. “This place isn’t secure. And I’m not leaving you in a hotel. I’m not dropping you off at one of your cousins’ houses where someone else can fuck this up.”

She opens her mouth.

“I said no.” My voice drops to something feral. Uncompromising. “This sick bastard thinks he knows you. Thinks you belong to him. Your name is everywhere, Lucy. You’re in the spotlight and that twisted freak thinks it means he can get close.”

I take a breath.

That was a fucking mistake.

Because now I smell her.

And it’s—it’s everything.

That soft, clean scent.

Like sunshine and sparkling diamonds—that is, if those things had a goddamn scent.

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