Page 8 of Shattered By Grace

“I’m Tyson Locke.” His voice was smooth, sharp. “Apologies for my twin, he can be ill-mannered.”

The Locke princes.

Victoria forced her breath to remain steady, her fingers curled around the tape at her wrists, peeling it off with a practiced calm, using the motion to ground herself.Not here. Not now.She couldn’t let them see the storm raging inside her.

Victoria peeled the tape from her wrists, her fingers steady, her movements calculated. “It’s fine,” she said, her voice controlled, almost dismissive. “I was just leaving.”

She turned, ready to put as much distance between them as possible, only to find herself boxed in.

Tristan stood in front of her, Tyson just beside him, both immovable. The wall of mirrors behind her.

Her exit was blocked.

The weight of their stares burned into her, a silent, unspoken challenge.

Victoria didn’t falter. Instead, she exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders back before meeting only Tristan’s gaze, her expression smooth as glass.

“Are you planning on moving,” she asked coolly, “or do you just enjoy standing in my way?”

Tristan smirked, tilting his head slightly. “That depends,” he murmured, voice dripping with amusement. “Are you always this rude, or is it just me?”

Victoria’s lips curled at the edges, but there was no warmth in it. “Just you,” she said, then stepped forward, not waiting for permission, not hesitating, forcing him to shift or risk her plowing straight through him.

She felt the heat of their bodies as she brushed past, the tension crackling like a live wire, but she refused to look back.

Not when she could still feel their eyes on her.

Not when she had just walked away from the most dangerous men in the city. And they had no idea who she really was.

Chapter Four

Victoria paced her apartment, the glowing red numbers taunting her. Three a.m. She had to be at the hospital by eight a.m. for rounds, but sleep? Not happening.

Even a scalding shower hadn’t cooled the fire still raging in her veins.

The Lockes.

Tristan and Tyson Locke.

She had just come back to the city. She had spent ten years in hiding. Ten years looking over her shoulder. Ten years building a life where they couldn't touch her.

And tonight she’d not only found the sons of the man who destroyed her life…She had flirted with one of them.

Her stomach twisted.

"Oh, God."

She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to recall every word, every look, every reckless move. Tristan had leaned in, testing her boundaries, and instead of recoiling, instead of keeping her distance, she stepped back just enough to play the game.

And he had noticed.

A shaky breath left her lips as she grabbed the bottle of Riesling from the fridge. She poured a glass, paused, then filled it to the rim.

"What the hell is wrong with me?"

She took a long sip, then another.

"Okay, options," she muttered, pacing again. "I could call Detective Adams…"

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