Page 13 of No Longer Mine

My heart pounded, but not with fear. No, this wasn’t fear. This was excitement.

I gripped the doorknob, turning it slowly, careful not to make a sound. Whoever was inside had taken great care to slip past my defenses.

The door swung open, and I stepped inside, taking in the dimly lit room. My eyes scanned the space, but nothing seemed out of place at first. The air was still, almost too quiet.

And then, a flicker of movement in the corner—just a shadow at the edge of my vision.

I smiled to myself, closing the door behind me with a soft click as I pulled a knife free from my pocket. The blade snapped out louder than the door closing.

The room stilled again, the tension thick enough to choke on. Whoever was in my room hadn’t expected me to come homeearly. I’d planned to stay at the fundraiser all night, schmoozing and rubbing elbows until I couldn’t stand it anymore. But boredom and frustration had gotten the better of me. Leaving early had seemed like a victory at the time.

Now, it felt like fate.

I rolled my shoulders, letting the knife catch the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains. My grip was firm—steady—as I moved deeper into the room.

“You picked the wrong night,” I said, my voice low, steady, and amused. “Or maybe the right one, depending on how this plays out.”

No response.

The shadow in the corner shifted slightly, a faint shuffle of fabric brushing against the wall. They were still there, watching and waiting.

“Careful,” I murmured, tilting my head as I stepped closer. “I’m not in the mood to play nice.”

The words hung in the air, thick with warning.

And then, they moved.

Not toward me, not away, but stepping just far enough out of the shadows to let me see them—a figure dressed in black, their face partially obscured by a ski mask. But what struck me wasn’t their stance or their clothes—it was their calm.

They weren’t afraid.

I lunged, fast and precise, my knife slicing through the air, aiming for their center. But they were quicker than I anticipated, twisting out of reach at the last second. My blade met nothing but empty space.

Fine. I could play, too.

I pivoted sharply, anticipating their next move, and struck again. They dodged, but I was faster this time. My free hand shot out, grabbing the edge of their jacket and yanking themback toward me. The momentum sent us both crashing into the nearest wall, my knife pressing against their ribs.

I expected them to fight. To panic.

They didn’t.

Up close, I could hear their breathing—steady and controlled. The kind of composure that came with experience. My grip tightened as I leaned in, my voice low—dangerous. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Still, no response.

Their chest rose and fell against mine, their muscles tense beneath the fabric of their clothes. No struggling, no fear—just the quiet hum of something I couldn’t quite place.

Then, they moved.

Fast.

A sharp twist, a shift of weight, and suddenly, I was the one off balance. They broke free, slipping just beyond my reach, and I barely caught the flash of their eyes through the ski mask before they drove their knee up—hard—aiming for my ribs.

I blocked it at the last second, absorbing most of the hit, but it still sent a sharp jolt through my side. The sting only made my blood pump harder.

The intruder moved quickly, making a break for the open window as I reeled from the blow. But I wasn’t about to let them disappear into the night, not without knowing who they were.

My hand shot out, fingers catching on the fabric of their ski mask. They twisted, trying to jerk away, but I held firm and yanked hard.

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