Page 36 of Desperate People

I’ve stood beside my father at business functions filled with billionaires and fake smiles.

But this?

This feels so much worse.

Because someone was in my home.

Someone touched my things. Tore my clothes. Desecrated my bed. Left that fucking flower. And that goddamn note like I was a prize they’d already claimed.

And Balor—thank fuck for Balor.

He stormed in like a silent storm.

Didn’t even ask. Just decided. Just took over.

And it was everything I needed.

“You cool enough?” he asks suddenly, without looking at me.

The question throws me.

I blink at him.

The digital clock glares at me from the dashboard like it’s judging my whole life.

3:03 a.m.

Still dark. Still humid as hell.

Eighty-seven degrees and climbing, even with the sun still down.

June’s out here cosplaying August, and I swear I can feel the heat pressing in from every angle—like it wants to crawl inside my skin.

And it’s not just the temperature.

It’s him.

Balor Cruz.

Two-tone eyes, tattoos, and the kind of energy that’s both salvation and danger, all wrapped in one too-quiet package.

“Lucy?” he says softly.

Concern threads through his voice.

I bite the inside of my cheek, then exhale, trying to make sense of the chaos still screaming in my head.

“Sorry,” I murmur, voice a little too brittle. “It’s just, someone broke into my apartment, did unspeakable things, trashed my stuff, and then you came and got me out of there, decided I’m coming home with you like some medieval caveman.”

I pause. My hands make a helpless gesture.

“And now you’re worried about my comfort?”

It comes out sharper than I intended.

And I hate myself for it.

Because I know it’s not fair.

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