Page 15 of Crown Of Blood
“You’re protecting her like she’s already yours.”
The ache in my chest flares again, a warning I ignore.
“She’s not mine,” I say.
But the lie sits heavy between us, because somewhere deep down, I already know—
The moment someone whispered her name in my world, she became something I couldn’t let go of.
And now, after tonight, the city will learn what it means to threaten what I’ve claimed.
Chapter 5
The city feels different when you’re hunted.
Even the air tastes wrong—like metal and rain and someone else’s breath.
I walk home with grocery bags cutting into my fingers, my phone buzzing nonstop in my pocket. I ignore it, again.
Danny’s called nine times. My boss has called six.
The mayor’s office leaked my investigation, there was a drive-by, and now half the city thinks I fabricated the whole story.
Every headline says my name.
Every shadow looks like a threat.
I don’t even realize I’ve stopped paying attention to the street until a voice inside my head whispers—You’re not safe here.
I glance up. The street’s quieter than it should be. My building’s only a block away. I pick up my pace.
The phone buzzes again. Danny.
I answer this time, exhaling hard. “What?”
“Finally,” he says, breathless. “Where are you? Please tell me you’re not home.”
“I’m walking—”
“Jesus, Isabella, go inside somewhere. Anywhere. People are saying there was another threat. You have to stop this—”
“I’m not hiding.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean. “They tried to scare me, but it didn’t work.”
“This isn’t about scaring you!” He’s shouting now, panic in his voice. “You don’t get it, Isa. These people don’t make warnings twice. Please, for once in your life, just—”
Something slams into my back. Hard.
The phone flies from my hand, clattering across the sidewalk. I don’t even have time to turn before an arm wraps around my waist, yanking me backward.
“What the—”
A rough hand covers my mouth. “Easy, lady. Don’t make this hard.”
My heart spikes. Panic flares so bright it burns. I twist, kick, bite—but there’s more than one of them.
Gloved hands. Hard grips. A van door slides open behind me.
They’re not cops. Not random. Trained.
