“Watch it, you little bastard.” I snatch Walrus before the calico kitten darts into security’s townhouse, and I kick the door shut. He meows and paws my cheek.

The corners of my mouth rise, but not because of this cat. I keep remembering Maximoff and me together only moments ago. Hell, I can’t stop replaying each minuscule part: the wolfish noises he made, his daggered eyes, the purest vulnerability, the overpowering feelings. Fuck, I’m kicking myself for leaving shit in his room. Because I just want to be with him.

Let’s make this fast.

I drop Walrus, and he leaps towards the kitchen. While I head to the old staircase, I spot Jane on the Victorian loveseat. Snuggled in a fuzzy pink blanket, she watches 10 Things I Hate About You alone.

This wouldn’t be unusual, but she invited Nate over tonight for a movie and sex. I saw the guy earlier in passing. He looks like a young, lightweight Scott Eastwood. Tall, preppy-styled brown hair, wide-jawed. A black blazer and gray button-down hugged his skinny build.

“Where’s Nate?” I fix my earpiece, the cord cold on my bare shoulder and back, running to the radio on my waistband.

Jane scratches Licorice behind the ear. “He’s using the bathroom.”

I nod, not about to linger long. I ascend the creaking stairs.

Jane has a little bit more freedom with a friends-with-benefits than she would with a one-night stand. See, Nate has been vetted multiple times and been in this townhouse even more. It’d be extreme overkill to keep putting a bodyguard “chaperone” on him.

And Thatcher is back at security’s townhouse, safe from overhearing his client having sex. Not that I really care about what Thatcher hears and doesn’t hear. We’re not all meant to be “besties” and that’s more than okay with me.

I don’t want a thousand best friends, and fuck, I don’t even want one best friend. I want my tireless, headstrong boyfriend and some reliable people I can hang with on occasion.

That’s all I need.

Halfway up the narrow staircase, I reach the second-floor landing. And I pause. My gut says, look. I turn my head, the bathroom door in view.

No light streams beneath the crack.

Instinct overrides alarm, and I move quietly but urgently. I open the unlocked door and flick on the lights. No one is in this fucking bathroom.

There are only two other doors. Left goes to Jane’s room. Right goes to Luna’s room. I tune out motives, the what ifs and all the shit that’d cause me to stumble or falter. I concentrate on one task.

Find Nate.

I open the left door. Flick on the lights.

A quick scan of the room.

Empty.

I shut the door, turn to the right one. Luna’s room. My jaw hardens as I grab the brass knob.

Don’t be in here, you motherfucker.

The knob jams.

It’s locked.

I listen for a half a second, no noise audible. I knock once, twice, and then feet patter. I lower my fist.

Don’t be in here.

The door swings open, and Luna peeks out, a heart drawn on her cheek. Green marker stains her hands. “Hi, Farrow.”

“Anyone with you?” I ask.

Luna glances behind her. “No…should there be?”

I have to look. “Can I see?”

“Yeah…”

I push the door wider. Glow-in-the-dark stars and planets are glued to the ceiling, lava lamps casting colors and odd shapes on her black chalkboard walls. Purple beads hang across her four-poster bed like curtains, but I can see through them.

And no one else is here.

Okay.

If he’s not on the second-floor, then I know where Nate is now. And it’s not good. My nose flares and eyes burn.

“What’s this about?” Luna wonders. “Are you trying to find Moffy? I thought he’s with you.”

“He is. Stay in your room for me. Lock your door again.” I wait for her to move. She hesitates, and my brows arch. “Luna.” I check the staircase. No movement.

My body tells me not to overact. Don’t jump the gun. Don’t panic. Breathe and face this shit head-on.

“Should I call my brother?” Luna asks.

“No,” I say. “I’m going to text him.” I already take out my phone and type a quick text. Luna nods and then shuts the door. I hear the lock click.

Stay in my room. Lock the door. I send the message to Maximoff.

Pocketing my phone, I continue up the stairs to the third floor. Process of deduction: there’s only one other place the stairs lead to.

Maximoff’s attic bedroom.

Don’t panic.

I inhale, not fixating on the reasons why Nate would want to be in Maximoff’s bedroom. If I concentrate on that, I’ll lose it.

My phone buzzes, but I don’t bother checking his reply. I can’t have a five-minute text conversation or a phone call with Maximoff. Not right now.

I climb the flight of stairs, quietly. Careful not to cause the old wood to squeak. Each step is a razor blade held to my throat. Because I know exactly what I’m climbing towards.

A nightmare.

A kind of hatred that I’ve seen for months in sick photo after sick photo.

Last step, and I’ve reached the top. I face a door and listen for a short moment.

Hearing…I shake my head. I can barely distinguish the noise.

But someone is in there. I’m not painting a vivid picture of what’s inside.

What I know: I need to end this tonight.

Turning the knob, I kick the door open.

And my heated gaze drills on a familiar face.

This fucker…

I grind my teeth.

Nate stands wide-eyed and eerily still next to the bed. At least two inches taller than me, could be more, his head almost touches the rafters and strung bulbs.

I hone in on his hands.

He clutches a stainless steel thermos, and in the other, he grips the hilt of a hunting knife. The mattress and orange comforter are already torn to shreds.

My muscles tighten; my jaw throbs from gritting, and I gently shut the door behind me.

As his shock wears off at being found, he narrows his gray-blue eyes on me. “You should understand,” Nate says seriously.

I tilt my head. “I should understand,” I repeat, acid dripping in the back of my throat. “What exactly should I understand, Nate?” You son of a bitch.

“You’ve seen Maximoff. You’ve seen him all over Jane.”

“They’re friends—”

“No,” Nate cuts me off, shaking his head once. “Maximoff has hated me because he’s jealous that I was sleeping with Jane. You know that? You know he wants her for himself?”

I let out a short laugh of cold disbelief. I’m unblinking. Staring at someone who created a twisted narrative off assumptions and fabrications, something more dangerous than the innocent truth. “You really believe that bullshit,” I realize.

His glare grows hotter. “People can brush off the tabloids like they mean nothing, but there’s truth there.” Nate points the blade at me. “You know it, too.”

My jaw tics. “I know you’ve been posting pics of Maximoff’s death on social media.” I’m 99% sure it’s him and just waiting for confirmation.

He lifts his chin and hesitates for a second. Like he’s unsure how to reply. But then his nose flares, and he says, “It’s what he deserves.”

“Fuck you,” I sneer, and a rampant fire ignites inside me. I charge, my stride lengthy and unrelenting.

Nate brandishes the knife at me less like a tool and more like a weapon. Ten feet away, his eyes warn me to stay back.

I don’t slow.

Maximoff Hale deserves peace. And love. I’ll always, always fight to give him the things that people rip away, and that’s not changing now, a year from now, five years—forever.

Nate lunges at me, blade outstretched, but I slip left and catch his wrist. I elbow his temple, then I uppercut his jaw, the impact bangs my knuckles, and his teeth bash together.

He blinks, disoriented, and I twist his wrist. His fingers release the knife, and it clatters to the floorboards. But I strengthen my grip and pull his wrist further back.

I feel his bone crack.

Wincing, Nate spits, “Get off!” He thrashes to push me back, and I fist his button-down.

As he grapples and claws against me, the thermos overturns on us. Something red is in the steel canister, but I don’t focus on that shit. I deck him in the jaw and dodge his blows as thick, warm crimson-liquid smears on our arms, my chest, our faces, his hair.

Blood.

It’s blood.

I slam him to the ground, his back lands with a loud thud. He planned to dump blood on Maximoff’s bed. Probably from an animal, pig or sheep, but I don’t think long.

I pin Nate down, my knee digging into his ribs. Floorboards are so slick with blood that his legs slide beneath me—my legs slide. Both of us searching for better grip.

Fuck.

I sit up partially and throw my knuckles into his smeared-red cheek.

His head whips to the left, but he spits. And I stare at more sick hatred than pain. A sudden thought cuts into me.

Maximoff was supposed to be in this room tonight. Nate didn’t know that Maximoff would be in security’s townhouse with me.

My eyes sear as I seize his irate gaze, and I ask coldly, “Were you planning to hurt him tonight?”

Nate breathes hard through his nose, unblinking. Not affirming.

Not denying. Could be, he doesn’t even know what he would’ve done.

He just leaves me to visualize that horrific scenario.

Fuck you. I can’t unleash the words or spit them out. They calcify inside of me, and my actions come in swift succession.

I fist his shirt, lifting him in an iron grip, and then I slam him down forcefully. His head bashes into the wood. Eyes flutter. One more time. Up and down, his eyes flutter again.

I cold-cock him with a right hook. His head lolls…unconscious. His body slackens beneath me.

I sit up.

Breathing, breathing, my chest rising and falling. I find the cord to my mic and earpiece, hanging off and covered in animal blood. I click the mic, and instinctively, I say, “Farrow to Thatcher, come to Maximoff’s room.”

Not a second later, he replies, “Copy that.”

With another heavy breath, I drop the mic.

I can’t stand.

I can’t move off him.

I spot the knife an arm’s length away. Grab the knife. End this. I reach and clasp the hilt.

The door opens.

Maximoff enters like a quiet force of nature, coming forward, and his sturdy forest-greens make sense of this bloodied scene.

I’m drenched in red liquid.

Nate is unconscious beneath me.

What surprises me, more than anything, Maximoff ignores Nate. Doesn’t look at him long or let his short-temper win. He’s not storming forward to throttle an unconscious body.

His eyes lock on my eyes.

He notices the blood, probably smeared across my forehead, cheeks, caked in my hair.

“Not mine,” I say quietly. “Animal.” Most likely.

He’s still coming forward.

He’s still committed and unwavering.

I’m still unmoving, clutching the knife. Unable to let go.

We both know what Nate being the stalker actually means. Jane and Maximoff trust so few people, and Nate was granted access to their townhouse. To their family. To all of their personal things. He abused a power, invaded their safe space, which is violating on so many fucking levels.

And yet, Maximoff is only looking at me, his empathetic eyes redden. Not letting rage eat at him, not letting this fester, but I’d been carrying this demon. This draining, leeching motherfucking thing.

He sees.

Shit, he’s known.

And it’s still clung to me.

Maximoff comes behind me. His biceps and forearms slide around my chest and abs. He helps me rise.

His fingers skate along mine, the knife still firm in my grip. “Farrow.”

I drop the knife. I blink.

And I breathe. But I don’t touch him. My hands are stained red. Blood all fucking over me.

With his chest to my back, he pulls me away from Nate. We near the brick wall, and his heart thuds against my body. And very strongly, he says, “It’s over, Farrow.”

Four months of sleeplessness, of an agonizing unknown and obsession that clawed deep under my skin. Gone.

All of it.

Relief just crashes into me at his words, and I shut my eyes. Something wet and hot rolls down my jaw. I breathe out, and just as I turn to face Maximoff, the door squeaks open.

Thatcher slips inside, his features set sternly, and I expect him to acknowledge me as part of a crime scene.

But he just talks into his mic. “Thatcher to Tri-Force, we need you at Jane and Maximoff’s townhouse.”

I wipe my hands on my pants. That’s not helping. Since Maximoff wrapped his arms around me, blood stains his bare chest and his hands too.

I’m not loitering here. Quickly, I tell Thatcher I’ll return, but we’re showering before security arrives. Before I need to rehash the events to everyone.

Maximoff and I exit, as quiet as possible but hurried, and we’re in the small bathroom. I crank the shower on. Hot water rains on the tiles. I’m not looking in that mirror.

We keep our clothes on and slip into the glass shower stall. Water pelts us, and I comb my fingers through my hair. He tries to help scrub the blood out of the strands.

Pink water washes into the drain at our bare feet. His skin tanned from the sun, mine fair, but the tops of my feet are inked with two nautical wheels.

He passes me a bottle of shampoo. One scrub later, and I’m sure it’s not coming out. The white strands will stay tinted red. Maximoff knows too, his forest-greens set back on me.

“I’ll dye it,” I tell him.

“I can get it.” He turns to leave.

I catch his broad shoulder. “Not yet.”

Maximoff faces me again, and I can’t stop staring at him, water dousing both of us. His chest rises in a heady breath.

My hand ascends to the back of his head, and he clutches my neck. Our foreheads nearly meet.

I can’t lose this guy, and he’s alive. He’s alive. Not hurt, not injured, he’s breathing right in front of me.

Maximoff licks his lips. “I didn’t listen to your fucking text.”

“No shit,” I murmur, and he lets out a short laugh—but his eyes melt over me. We’re drawing closer, closer. And more serious, I whisper powerfully, “I’m glad.”

He holds me stronger; my grip is tighter, and we pull towards each other abruptly, chest slamming against chest. As though we’re trying to connect as deeply physically as we are emotionally, the intensity rattling me, and I cup his face. His fingers claw at my shoulders. We spin, wrestling for more, and my back hits the tiled wall.

We haven’t kissed, but he’s already devoured me.

“Maximoff,” I breathe against his mouth.

His eyes scream I fucking love you. “Don’t let go,” he orders.

“I’m not.” I’m not.

“Neither am I,” he assures me.

“Good.”

And I realize and feel something. I would’ve self-destructed without him. He’s been the prince in knight’s armor.

Protecting me.