Page 11 of Surrender to Me
But as I open my mouth, the suited man steps off the curb, heading for my building.
My survival instincts—honed by years of narrow escapes—kick in.
One night.
I’ll stay one night with Stryker. Just long enough to find my bearings. Then I’ll vanish with a new name, a new city. No attachments. And definitely no Hawkeye agent in my life. “Kitchen window.” I hate how the words taste like surrender.
He nods.
As we move through the space, I glance over my shoulder at the wreckage of my life—slashed cushions, scattered books—and the violation twists like a knife. The locket burns hotter against my skin.
Stryker’s hand grazes my arm, light but firm. “Move, Allie.”
The name jars me, but I nod, shoving down the spark his touch ignites.
Outside the kitchen window is a rusty fire escape, no cameras to catch us, just how I like it. It’s always my choice to live where eyes can’t follow.
I climb onto the counter and yank the window open. The September chill hits harder than it had even an hour ago, clawing under my hoodie.
Stryker’s right behind me, his presence a solid heat that I shouldn’t notice but do. Damn him.
The fire escape creaks under my weight as I swing onto the ladder, my running shoes gripping the metal rungs.
My unwanted protector follows, silent, his movements fluid like he’s done this a hundred times.
For a moment, we pause.
Below us, the alley is a shadowed slit between buildings—trash bins, puddles glinting in the weak morning light.
My pulse hammers, but I force my breaths even, Dad’s training kicking in: Control the fear, Lyra. It’s just another game. Except this game could kill me.
We continue, Stryker in the lead.
When we’re halfway down, a shadow shifts below us. Not a stray cat or a drunk stumbling home—a man, bulky, black sweatshirt.
Stryker notices the exact moment I do.
My attacker is waiting, eyes glinting up at us like a wolf scenting blood. My stomach lurches. He’s not alone. Footsteps crunch from the alley’s mouth as another figure closes in.
Stryker flashes me a hand signal—two fingers, a sharp flick toward the ground. Stay low.
I nod, gripping the ladder more tightly, my muscles coiled. He drops the last few feet, landing silent as a panther, and I follow, quieter than I feel.
The man charges, a knife flashing in his fist, aiming for Stryker.
Big mistake.
Stryker moves like liquid steel—sidestepping, grabbing the thug’s wrist, twisting it until the knife clatters to the pavement.
The guy grunts, swinging his meaty fist, but Stryker’s faster, slamming an elbow into the attacker’s jaw with a crack that echoes off the bricks.
When he staggers, I don’t waste time—I sweep out my foot, catching his legs and dropping him to the asphalt. Dad’s lessons again: Hit hard, hit fast. Expect the unexpected.
Stryker glances at me, a flicker of approval in his eyes. I give him a tight nod as my traitorous heart skips a beat.
“Move out!” He’s already sprinting toward the alley’s end.
I’m right behind him, our breaths syncing as we burst onto the street.
