I don’t know how I get back to my apartment. The drive is a whirlwind of adrenaline and hysteria until I’m sitting in his idling car in the loading zone in front of my building.

I cut the ignition, leave the key fob in the console, then sprint inside. That asshole deserves to have his car stolen, and so much more.

I enter the building pin code, shove open the door, and skip the elevator to sprint up the stairs two at a time.

Once I’m inside my apartment, I focus on getting back outside as soon as possible. My knife is placed in a leather holster and attached to my bra. A switchblade is inserted into my left boot. Mace goes into the right. My gun is shoved into the pocket I’ve sewn inside my coat.

I grab the stack of cash from the ice-cream tub in the freezer. Another from the sealed bag in the toilet cistern. Then the last from the hidden panel inside the bedside table bottom drawer.

Anything of value goes into my backpack. My laptop, my money, a change of clothes, and most importantly, the few treasured items from my family that I sifted through burning embers to find. The rest has to stay.

I place anything else I might want later—electronic devices, more weapons—into purple garbage bags and shove them down the disgusting trash chute in the hall. I can only hope they are still in the dumpster when I chance coming back to retrieve them.

I’m not going to hang around and load a damn truck. I don’t even give myself five seconds to say goodbye to memories. Hunter isn’t messing around, and neither can I.

I haul the pack onto my back and lock the door on my way out. I even grab my portable surveillance camera in the hall to take with me.

I run three blocks, catch the first cab I find, and ask the driver to take me as far away as possible. He cuts across town, and I get him to drive in circles for almost an hour to make sure I’m not being followed before I get out.

The sun starts to set as I walk miles and miles until I find a cheap motel with an easy escape route, pay cash in advance, and ask for a room that backs onto the alley.

The click of the door is deafening as I close myself into my new home. I don’t bother to unpack. All I remove from the backpack is the surveillance camera, which I place in the window, the lens pointing outside.

Coiling tendrils of self-loathing wrap around my ankles and hold me in place. Failure threatens to drag me under.

All I can see is Hunter. All I can feel is his presence—his breath on my neck, his hands on my skin.

“Fuck you,” I scream. “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.”

Someone bangs on the wall from the next room, and I scream louder. “Fuck you, too.”

I drag my feet to the bed and slump onto the mattress. My dress tightens around me like a straitjacket, constricting and choking. I yank at the zipper, drag it down, and throw the material across the room.

Sitting in my underwear doesn’t help either because I still feel dirty.

Used.

God, I hate him. I hate his lies. I hate what he stands for. And most of all, I hate that I can’t truly hate him at all. My building emotions aren’t born of anger. They’re weaker than that. I’m consumed with betrayal and pathetic heartbreak.

“Damn it to hell. I’m not this woman.” I flop back on the bed. I can’t be this woman.

Someone this weak and useless won’t succeed in gaining revenge on the man who murdered her family. No. This woman will get herself killed by distraction. It’s a certainty.

I shove a hand through my hair and stare at the ceiling.

At least I’m not a murderer. My conscience is clean in that regard, and yet the relief hasn’t arrived. It felt so much better to have killed a man while another warmed my bed than it does now when I’m innocent and alone.

How pitiful is that?

I don’t even know myself anymore.

I shake my head, but I’m unable to shake the train of thought.

I crawl up to the pillows and try to ignore how he’s made me feel. I still have to get back to my apartment to retrieve the bags in the dumpster. I also have to get rent money to Brent somehow.

For now, though, I need to rest and recharge. I didn’t sleep well last night, which is probably why I’m overly emotional.

I roll to my side and close my eyes. On instant replay, all the time I spent with Hunter comes rushing back. His face, his comfort, his promises.

All lies.

Every single breath he took in my presence was fake. And I am no closer to Jacob, either. Everything has turned to shit.

I drift, sleep dragging me under, then spitting me back out, over and over on a continuous loop. I dream about him. His voice murmurs, the words hazy. His mouth presses against mine and his lips curve in a smile while a possessive grip lands on my hip. I moan and clench my thighs.

I want you. God, why do I still want you?

He drifts away, disappearing into darkness.

I dream of my family. Of the past. Of the Samaritan—Decker—and the other threatening man from this morning—Torian. I toss and turn and finally give up hope of energizing rest when the sun begins to pound the back of my lids.

I groan, snuggle the pillow to my chest, and open my eyes.

Bright light beams down on me from the partly opened curtain. I sit up, frown, and narrow my gaze on the surveillance camera now pointed in my direction.

What…the…

I push onto my elbow. There’s no way I focused the lens on the bed. I hadn’t been that tired. I faced it in the other direction. Outside.

I flick back the covers and search for my phone. “Shit.” I should’ve had it right beside me.

A sheet of paper swoops off the mattress, floating through the air with menacing grace as I cease moving. It drifts down to the pillows, laying gently beside me like a threatening plague.

I glance around the room, my senses heightened as I search for anything out of place. There’s no movement, no unnatural sound. Nothing nudges my senses, only the camera bearing down on me and the note taunting me.

I reach across to the pillows and retrieve the paper to read the neat script—Stop messing around and find a better place to hide. I snap a hand over my mouth to hold in my fear.

He found me. He was in my fucking room.

I scamper from the bed and do another scan of my surroundings, over the television, across the windowsill, my gaze pausing on the door. A steak knife protrudes from the wood, a piece of paper stabbed beneath the blade. I rush toward it and pull the note free.

You’re beautiful when you sleep.

My heart kicks, and I hate it. I hate it so much my tummy tumbles.

I crumple the message in my fist and throw it to the floor. I scramble to collect my belongings, the video camera, my phone, my dress. I pull on the only set of clothes I packed—a pair of black workout leggings, a loose top, and an even baggier hoodie.

I don’t waste time hanging around. I get out of there and rush to catch the bus pulling to a stop at the end of the block.

“Please drive. Quick,” I beg the middle-aged man behind the wheel. “Someone is following me.”

The damsel-in-distress gig works most of the time, and now is no exception as the driver hastens to close the door and pull away from the curb.

Three people are on board, all of them watching me from their spaced positions throughout the rows of seats. A teenage girl. An elderly man. A woman in a business suit. I remain in the front of the bus, on a seat parallel with the aisle and close to the door.

I can keep an eye on my surroundings while I pull out my phone and log into my surveillance account. The damn device has been silenced since the funeral, which means I didn’t get a notification when Hunter approached my room around four in the morning. He tested the door handle, then walked out of view.

I fast forward the video until the image tilts, turns, then I’m in the picture, half-naked on the bed. He walks away from the camera, toward me. I don’t flinch in my sleep. I don’t even stir as he looks down at me, without malice or anger. He stares, watching, waiting, while I lie vulnerable and exposed.

My heart crumples at the longing I see in his expression, even though I know it’s not really there. It’s a hallucination. A mirage. I glide my finger over the screen, touching what can no longer be truly touched and hate myself for the pathetic gesture.

Why didn’t he hurt me? Why didn’t he tie me up and demand the information he wants so badly?

He leans in, and I hold my breath as I watch him press his lips to mine.

“Holy shit.” It wasn’t a dream. He kissed me in my sleep, and I kissed him back.

Why? I don’t understand his intent. Am I supposed to believe his actions are some sort of truce? Did he change the camera angle to showcase his incredible acting skills?

He places his notes around the room, not tiptoeing, with casual self-assurance, then he glances at the camera and those eyes meet mine.

Why is he doing this to me? Why am I letting him?

He keeps reeling me in, sinking his hooks into the vulnerable parts I thought I’d strengthened.

“Pull over at the next stop, please,” I instruct the driver.

I log out of the feed, delete the app, and place my cell on the seat as the bus veers to the curb of an unfamiliar street.

“Thank you.” I haul my pack onto my back and stand, leaving my phone behind. If Hunter placed a tracker in my cell, he could enjoy the excursion the day would bring, because I have no plans to participate in his game anymore.

I need to feel whole again. Free.

And so I run.