2

My grip tightens on the pepper spray until the plastic bites into my palm. I step fully into the room, letting the door drift shut behind me.

The smell hits me first. Cheap cologne and stale tobacco. It masks the usual scent of mildew and lemon cleaner.

"You're late, Mrs. Mikos."

A lamp clicks on. The sudden light stings my eyes.

A man sits on my beige, second-hand couch. Boots—muddy, heavy work boots—rest on my coffee table. He’s holding a silver frame in his thick, scarred hands.

My wedding photo.

"Mick." My voice is steady, but my knees lock to keep from shaking. "Get your feet off my table."

Mick doesn't move. He’s a mountain of grease and muscle, a collector for the loan shark Nikos owed. He sets the photo down face-up. Nikos smiles up at the ceiling, frozen in a lie.

"We need to talk about your payment plan," Mick says. He stands up. The couch groans in relief.

"I paid last week." I don't move from the entryway. The distance feels safer, but in this tiny studio, safety is an illusion.

"That was last week's interest." He takes a step toward me. He’s big, taking up too much air in the room. "This week, you're short. Way short."

"I'll have it by Friday."

"Friday's no good." He shakes his head, a mock-sympathetic look plastered on his wide face. "Boss is tired of waiting. He thinks maybe we need to explore... alternative payment methods."

My back hits the door. There's nowhere to go.

"Alternative?" The word tastes like ash.

"You're a pretty girl, Thalia." His eyes rake over me, lingering on my chest, my hips. It’s the same look Sal gave me, but stripped of any pretense. This is predatory. "I'm sure we can work something out. A private arrangement."

Bile rises in my throat. "Get out."

He laughs. It’s a wet, ugly sound. "Or what? You gonna spray me with that little toy in your hand?"

He lunges.

I raise the canister, my thumb fumbling for the trigger, but he’s too fast. His hand clamps around my wrist, crushing the bones together.

"Drop it."

Pain shoots up my arm. The canister clatters to the floor.

He crowds me against the wood, his body heat suffocating. He smells of sweat and unwashed clothes. His free hand reaches for the buttons of my denim jacket.

"Let's see what Nikos paid so much for," he sneers.

"Don't touch me!" I struggle, kicking at his shins, but he’s like a wall of concrete.

"Stop fighting. You owe a debt. Time to pay up."

His fingers brush the skin of my collarbone. Revulsion shudders through me. I open my mouth to scream, to bite, to do anything—

BOOM.

The world explodes.

The door behind me shudders violently, the wood splintering inward. The lock rips from the frame with a screech of tearing metal.

Mick stumbles back, distracted.

The door flies open, crashing against the wall.

A shadow fills the frame. Massive. Terrifying.

Drakon.

He doesn't look like a man. He looks like a natural disaster wrapped in black leather.

He doesn't speak. He doesn't pause to assess. He crosses the room in two strides, a blur of violence.

Mick barely has time to raise his hands.

Drakon’s fist connects with Mick’s jaw. The sound is wet and heavy—meat hitting meat. Blood sprays across my cheap wallpaper.

Mick stumbles back, crashing into the coffee table. Glass shatters.

Drakon doesn't stop. He grabs Mick by the throat and lifts him off the ground. He slams him against the drywall. Plaster dust explodes into the air.

Mick claws at Drakon’s hand, his legs kicking uselessly. He’s choking, eyes bulging.

"Please—" Mick gasps.

Drakon shifts his grip. He grabs Mick’s right arm—the one that touched me.

He twists.

CRACK.

The sound is sickening. Like a dry branch snapping in winter.

Mick’s scream is high and thin, piercing the small room.

Drakon releases him. Mick drops to the floor, cradling his ruined arm, whimpering like a kicked dog.

"Get out."

Drakon’s voice is gravel grinding on glass. Low. lethal.

"My arm! You broke my—"

Drakon takes a step forward. His boot draws back.

Mick scrambles backward, sliding on the broken glass, blood dripping from his nose. He doesn't stand up. He crawls. He scrambles past me, terrified eyes wide and white, and throws himself out into the hallway.

We hear his footsteps pounding down the stairs, erratic and desperate.

Then, silence.

It crashes down on the room, heavier than the violence.

My chest heaves. I press my back against the wall, trying to disappear.

Drakon turns slowly.

His chest rises and falls in deep, controlled breaths. His knuckles are split and bleeding. A drop of Mick’s blood runs down his cheek.

He looks wild. Unhinged.

His eyes are black pits, burning with a rage that makes the air crackle. He scans me, checking for injuries. His gaze feels like a physical weight, heavier than Mick’s ever was.

"You okay?"

The question is soft, jarring against the violence radiating off him.

I nod. My voice is stuck in my throat.

He steps toward me.

The air shifts. The room shrinks.

He’s too close. I can smell him—gasoline, worn leather, the metallic tang of blood, and something darker. Musk. Man.

My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way he’s looking at me. Like he wants to consume me.

"He touched you," Drakon says. It’s not a question. It’s an accusation.

"He... he wanted payment."

Drakon’s jaw tightens. A muscle feathers in his cheek. He reaches out. I flinch.

He freezes. Pain flashes in his eyes—raw and open—before the mask slams back down.

"I’m not going to hurt you, Thalia."

He reaches out again, slower this time. His thumb brushes my lower lip. His skin is rough, calloused, but his touch is maddeningly gentle.

My breath hitches. My legs turn to water.

"Why?" I whisper. "Why are you here?"

"I told you." His voice drops an octave, vibrating through my chest. "I’m done watching."

He steps closer. His thighs brush mine. The heat radiating off him is intoxicating. I should push him away. I should tell him to get out.

But I don't. I lean in. Just an inch.

His pupils dilate, swallowing the iris.

"How much?" he growls.

I blink, the spell fracturing slightly. "What?"

"The debt." His hand slides from my face to grip my shoulder. Possessive. Anchoring. "How much did that bastard Nikos owe?"