Page 112 of Shadows of Steel
A chill burrows beneath my skin, deep and unrelenting. I feel defiled.
No amount of scrubbing, no scalding-hot showers, no freshly laundered sheets have erased the sensation. His presence lingers. In that room. In my mind. I can still hear my own panicked breaths echoing against the tiles, still feel the weight of unseen eyes violating the space meant to be mine alone.
Dante has doubled security.
Tripled it, even.
I can’t take a single step without a shadow at my back, a man at my door, a gun always within reach. I can’t so much as enter the bathroom without a guard stationed outside.
Dante watches me like a hawk, his fury a barely leashed beast beneath the surface, his guilt eating him alive.
But it wasn’t his fault.
It wasn’t his failure.
And yet, the apprehension persists.
I feel it now, seated on the bleachers at Mattia’s football practice. The ever-present weight of my security detail looms behind me, their eyes scanning the field. The coaches, the parents, anyone could be a threat. My gaze sweeps over thecrowd, flicking from face to face, tension coiled tight in my stomach.
Yet after everything, after the invasion of my own home, being out in the open no longer feels like the greatest danger.
He was in my home.
In my fucking bathroom.
There’s nowhere safer, and yet he still got in.
So what’s the point of hiding?
I exhale, adjusting the baseball cap on my head and pushing my sunglasses further up my nose. My body is covered, leggings hugging my legs, an oversized t-shirt draped over my frame, but the unease is still there.
The coach offers me a nod from across the field, but something about him unsettles me.
I know I’m being irrational. Maybe I’m simply seeing threats where there are none, searching for danger in every shadow.
Exhaling slowly, I shift my focus back to the game, my gaze instinctively finding Mattia. Beside him, a boy says something, his smile curling with cruel intent.
I catch the subtle change in Mattia’s stance, the tension coiling in his shoulders, the way his fists tighten at his sides. A second later, his knuckles crash into the other boy’s face.
Damn it.
I’m already on my feet, sprinting forward.
The kid stumbles back but retaliates swiftly, his fist connecting with Mattia’s side. He barely flinches.
They’re brawling now, fists flying, angry shouts echoing across the field. The coach rushes forward, but I reach them first. I step between them, my arm shooting out to grab the boy by the collar, yanking him back before he can land another punch.
“Enough!” My voice cuts through the air like a whip.
The coach halts in front of us, eyes flashing with barely restrained frustration.
Mattia stands rigid beside me, chest heaving, jaw clenched tight, fists still coiled at his sides. The other kid wipes the blood from his nose, glaring.
“Stupid idiot!” He mutters under his breath.
I step forward, my gaze sharp, deadly. “What was that?”
The boy swallows.
