Page 7 of Tempest’s Torment

"He'll come back." My voice is barely more than a rasp. "He... he'll come back."

His expression hardens. "Who will?"

"Evan." Saying his name makes my stomach turn. "He has a knife and... and a gun." My words tumble over each other. "You have to leave. Please... just go."

The man glances toward the tree line, but when he looks back at me, something has changed, not with fear, but with calculation.

"Nobody's going anywhere," he says quietly. "Can you tell me your name?"

My name? I stare at him, and for a second... I can't remember it.

The world tilts, the trees blur together, and the last thing I see is him looking back toward the woods, his jaw set, as another biker reaches for the radio clipped to his vest. Then everything disappears.

I don't remember hitting the ground; the only thing I remember is hoping the man who found me wasn't a monster too.

CHAPTER ONE

lilah

Present Day

Boston, Massachusetts

I'm awake before the alarm; I always am now. I lie still for a second, staring at the water stain on the ceiling above my bed, listening to the sounds around me: traffic already starting outside, the sound of a door closing down the hall, a dog barking on the floor above me. My apartment is silent, there’s nothing that shouldn't be here.

I inhale deeply as I slide out of bed. The first thing I do is check the front door, ensuring the deadbolt is thrown with the chain still on. Once I’ve double checked those, I test the handle, just to make sure. It’s become a ritual every night, and every morning is the same. My brain needs the reassurance that everything is locked up tight and that I’m safe. I then move toward the windows; they’re both latched. Once that’s done, I can finally start my day.

Ever since Lucy died, fear grips me daily. I jump at every noise, and I no longer see the good in people, everyone is a threat, someone who could harm me just as Evan did. My head knows that I’m in Boston, but sometimes, I still feel trapped in that cabin.

I get dressed with the bedroom door closed; not because anyone is here, but because I feel safer doing so.

My wardrobe has changed since that dreadful day. Before, I used to wear whatever I liked, anything that would make me feel pretty, but now, it's always long sleeves that I pull down past my wrists. The first and only time I didn’t wear them, I got so many stares at the scars that I now bear, that it sent me spiraling. Since that day, long sleeves have become my safety net.

While I wait for the coffee to brew, I stand at the window, watching the street below. The woman who lives two floors below is out walking her golden retriever, the café across the road has a line out the door already, everyone wanting their morning fix.

I scan the street for dangers, ensuring there’s no blacked out sedan parked on the corner, or a man in a hoodie and baseball cap waiting against the street lamp. Seeing that it’s just normal people going about their normal, everyday life has me relaxing. I take a bite of my bagel and enjoy watching everyone go past.

My apartment isn’t much, but it has everything I need: one bedroom, one bathroom, a tiny kitchen; I don’t need anything else. I still haven't hung anything on the walls, because it doesn't feel permanent; nothing ever does anymore.

I grab my coffee and sling my bag over my shoulder. Before I zip it closed, I check everything one last time: keys in the front pocket, phone fully charged, my wallet, and a full can of pepper spray.

I was told I wouldn’t need it here, but I carry it anyway—yet another safety net that I need.

Crossing to the front door, I look through the peephole; the hallway is empty. I unlock the door and step outside, pulling it shut behind me, the deadbolt clicks into place, and I test the handle once, then once more—just to be sure. It’s time to go to work.

The apartment opposite mine opens. I instinctively take a step back as a man fills the doorway. He’s tall with dark hair that’s almost shaved, but his jaw hasn't seen a razor in a few days. He’s wearing jeans, a gray T-shirt, and a leather cut over the top.

He closes his door, locks it, then looks up and our eyes meet. He gives me a small nod. I nod back before quickly dropping my gaze.

I hear his footsteps as he heads for the stairs without a word, and I wait until they've faded before I move.

By the time I reach the florist, Louise is already outside putting out the signboard. "Morning," she calls.

"Morning." I unlatch the door, shoulder it open when the latch sticks, and shove my way inside.

"Morning, sweetheart." Cara is already in the back, stripping the leaves from a bucket of roses. She glances up over the top of her glasses as I hang my coat on the hook by the door. "You're two minutes early."

I grin at her. "You noticed."