Tracy's POV
I wanted to run—again.
Just pick up whatever was left of my life, leave Zane behind, and never look back. Forget the way his eyes always seemed to strip away my defenses. Forget the strange, invisible net that seemed to tighten around me whenever he was near. Forget that every time he looked at me, I felt seen in a way I wasn't ready for—and didn't want to be.
But my ankle had other plans.
The moment I tried to stand, pain shot up my leg like a cruel reminder of how trapped I was. My knees buckled, and I collapsed back onto the worn blue sofa.
So much for running.
The rain was relentless, slamming against the windows like it wanted in. Thunder rolled above, each rumble swallowing the sound of my quiet sobs. I pulled my knees to my chest, my tears hot against my cold skin. I'd been holding everything together for so long, but now… now it was all unraveling.
Why was I in this mess?
I had just graduated college. My plans had been simple—find a decent job, rent a cozy little apartment, maybe get a dog. Fall in love with someone safe, someone who smiled more than they scowled. Someone who didn't make my heart pound for all the wrong reasons.
Instead, I was stranded in the middle of a rainstorm with a man who could crush a life with one phone call. A man whose secrets I couldn't begin to unravel, who could go from infuriatingly calm to dangerously lethal in the space of a breath. A man who made me think about… things… every time he so much as brushed past me.
Things I had no business thinking about.
Up until now, I'd been good at keeping my body in check. But if Zane pushed me one more time, got too close one more time… I wasn't sure how long my self-control would last.
My mind shifted to Aunt Mira. How low I had sunk that day—showing up at her house, begging for money to pay off my dad's debt. Thinking maybe, just maybe, she'd help. But instead, she'd leaned in with that sickening smile, her words dripping with suggestion.
I hadn't known she was like that. Not until that day.
And now? She hated me. I'd seen it in her eyes when I walked out the door.
The rain pounded harder, rattling the windows. Then I heard it—keys in the lock. The slow, deliberate turn of metal, the click of the door easing open.
Zane stepped inside.
Water dripped from his hair, running down the line of his jaw. His shirt clung to him like it was painted on, each raindrop tracing the lines of muscle across his chest and abdomen. He moved with that infuriating, casual confidence—as though the world outside couldn't touch him.
And then his gaze caught on something.
The shelf.
It wasn't where it should be. The rug beneath it was lifted.
His head turned toward me.
I swallowed hard, my fingers curling into the fabric of the sofa.
"What went on here?" His voice was low, even—but there was an edge to it.
"I was… trying to find some clues for myself," I said quickly. The words felt flimsy even to me. My voice trembled despite my best effort to steady it.
His eyes darkened—more than usual, which was saying something.
He peeled off his drenched silk shirt, the movement slow and deliberate, and tossed it over the arm of a chair. Every line of him was on display now, and my stupid brain betrayed me by imagining what it would be like to trace those lines with my fingertips.
Focus, Tracy.
"Clues, huh?" he repeated, his tone unreadable.
"Yes," I stammered. "You won't tell me anything, so I had to find something for myself."
His gaze flicked to the newspaper clutched in my hand, lingered there, then returned to my face.
"Did you find anything useful?" His voice carried a note of mockery, but there was something else under it—something I couldn't quite place.
I hesitated. My throat was dry. "Am I… like this girl? Regina?"
"Yes," he said bluntly.
The word landed like a stone in my chest. My voice was smaller when I asked, "Why are you helping me, Zane?"
He took a step toward me. Then another. And another.
Every part of me screamed to back away, but my body stayed rooted to the spot, my pulse thundering in my ears. He smelled faintly of rain and something sharper—something dangerous.
When he stopped in front of me, he crouched, bringing his face level with mine. His eyes searched mine like he was looking for something buried deep inside. Then, slowly, his fingers brushed against my cheek.
The touch was warm, deliberate. My eyelids fluttered closed before I could stop them. I bit my lip, a quiet breath slipping out.
"Get away from me, Zane," I whispered, though even I could hear the lack of conviction in my voice.
His hand slid down in a straight, unhurried line—from my neck, to the center of my chest. My breath caught. My skin burned everywhere he touched, my mind screaming that this was wrong, while my body leaned into it.
He moved lower, down my stomach… down to the waistband of my skirt… brushing the very edge of my underwear.
A sound escaped me before I could swallow it back—a soft gasp, shamefully close to a moan. My heart pounded against my ribs, and for a moment I thought…
But then—his hand kept going. Past my hip, down my thigh, until he stopped at my ankle.
"Does it hurt that much?" he asked, his voice soft, almost amused.
My eyes flew open. He was smirking.
Oh my God. I had made a complete fool of myself.
"What do you mean?" I demanded, heat flooding my face.
"Your ankle," he said, all false innocence. "Does it still hurt?"
"Yes—of course it does!" I stammered. "I mean… ugh!"
"What's the problem?" he asked again, tilting his head like he was genuinely confused.
"You need ice? Or should I wrap it in a bandage?"
"I…ce. No—bandage. Ugh, you—"
"Which one?" he pressed, leaning closer still.
"You really are a big fool," I blurted before I could stop myself.
"You know," he murmured, "people who call me that usually don't get to see the next second. But here you are."
His gaze lingered on me for a long, heavy beat before he stood.
I exhaled, only then realizing I'd been holding my breath.
He disappeared into another room, and I was left sitting there, still feeling the phantom of his touch, my thoughts a chaotic mess.
Who the hell did he think he was—playing with me like this?
When he returned, he carried a first-aid box in one hand and a roll of bandage in the other.
"If you're going to be trashing here," he said casually, "I guess I won't take you to my apartment anymore."
My head snapped up. "Your… apartment?"
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