Page 9 of Surrender to Me
He ignores me.
Instead, he closes the door and locks it—not that that makes things safer. Then he crouches to pick up a torn photograph that’s half buried under scattered books.
It’s a picture of one of my many childhood homes—a rambling Victorian in upstate New York. That’s where my dad taught me to pick locks, calling it a “magic trick.”
The image is ripped down the middle in a deliberate taunt, making my stomach twist.
“We both know this wasn’t random.” Stryker pushes to a standing position, the photo dangling from his fingers like evidence.
“It’s just a picture.” My words are a lie. It’s a cherished memory, of the idyllic time before we lost my mom. Before I became a child accomplice to my father’s schemes.
Stryker shakes his head, that half smile tugging at his lips—charming, infuriating. “You’re good at pretending, I’ll give you that.”
After setting down the image, he reaches into his pocket—slow, telegraphing the move so I don’t shoot—and pulls out another matte-black card, identical to the first. Hawkeye Security, with a number etched in silver. He sets it on the counter, deliberate, his eyes never leaving mine. “Call me when you realize you’re in too deep.”
The challenge in his gaze hits me low, a spark that races through my veins, turning my pulse into a frantic, out of control thing.
Stryker is too close again, his clean, masculine scent cutting through the chaos, his presence dominating the room without effort.
For the first time, a man is unfazed by my defiance. His reaction to me stirs something dangerous in me—attraction wrapped in warning, like submitting to him would be surrender and salvation all at once.
But trust Hawkeye? Let him know who I am?
No. That would be madness.
I need to keep my walls up and my secrets buried.
“You can leave now.” My voice is low, my gun still trained.
He nods once, respectfully.
He remains where he is for a few moments without retreating. Then he turns, strides to the door, and vanishes, the door closing with a soft click that seems to echo loudly behind him.
After safely tucking my gun away, I turn the lock and sag against the wall.
The adrenaline crash hits me hard.
What happened here is a violation of my space. And the taunt of that photo confirms that the hunt is on.
My chest aches from the emotional wreckage that is every bit as awful as the physical destruction.
I pick up the ripped photo Stryker had been holding and shove the remains into my pocket.
First things first: the safe.
My minimalist fortress has one true secret—a false panel behind the bedroom baseboard, disguised as part of the wall.
I pry it open with trembling fingers, revealing the small fireproof box.
Inside, there’s a round ceramic fob with markings etched in it. No matter how many hours I’ve stared at it, they make no sense to me.
There’s a knock at the door—sharp and insistent.
Instantly I shove the box back in its place, replace the baseboard, and palm my gun before creeping into the living room to peek through the peephole. Stryker.
Again.
What the hell?
