Page 66 of Modern Romance September 2026 Books 5-8

I don’t hesitate. I reach out to my left, grab hold of the vase sitting by the door, and I fling it at him. He moves, but it catches the side of his face, and then he’s up. Up and moving toward me. I scream, as loudly as possible. I’m determined to alert my neighbors. I race into the kitchen, open a drawer and start looking for the most suitable knife.

I’m like a feral creature. Driven by the desperate need to protect, not just myself, but the life inside me.

It’s not my baby. I’ve been firm on that from the beginning.

But I’m the one who sustains this light, this life. I’m the one who has to keep them safe. I realize right then that I’ll die defending them.

I pull out the biggest knife in the drawer, and brandish it at him.

There’s an abrasion on his cheek, blood dripping down. And I feel satisfied that if nothing else, I’ve drawn first blood.

“That was a mistake, Lindsay,” he says.

His English is accented, but that’s not the most troubling part of what he’s just said.

He knows my name.

This isn’t random.

“Get out of my house,” I say. “Or I will gut you like a fish.”

And I know full well how to gut a fish. My summer working on a fishing boat in Alaska taught me a lot of things. One of those things was the practicalities of cleaning your catch. Another was how to defend myself against men that I didn’t want anywhere near me.

“You little demon. I will have that knife away from you before you move at me. You surprised me once, but you will not do it again. But I would rather we did not take the risk that you are injured.”

“I’m willing to take that risk,” I say. I’ll be damned if he’s taking me to a secondary location. It’s not happening.

He lunges forward, and I slash the knife toward his face. He grips my wrist, and it’s like being caught in an iron vise. There’s nothing I can do. Nothing. I can’t even move. He’s so much stronger than I realized. I’ve caught men off guard before, hit them when they weren’t paying attention and made an escape. I’ve had to.

But I’ve never been…stopped like this. Held.

“Drop the knife,” he says.

“I won’t,” I shriek and try to kick at him, while being conscious that I could end up hurting myself.

“Drop it, Lindsay.”

I snarl, because he will not take me so easily. I didn’t make it this far in life to be killed by an inked-up thirst trap in a custom suit. This man whose clothes cost more than I’ve ever seen before. This man who thinks he can take me, own me, control me, because he’s a man.

I’ll die here, thanks.

Fighting.

He squeezes my wrist, and presses his thumb hard into a spot on my hand, and my body acts without my permission, flexing and releasing the knife. It clatters to the kitchen floor, and I howl with rage.

What stops me cold is how beautiful he is. I’ve never been one for church, but I have heard enough stories to know that Lucifer, the devil, was a being of light and beauty. I never understood how a theoretically evil being could be beautiful.

I do now.

This man is like both. Pitch-black and bright light, he radiates it at the same time as he draws all things toward him. A black hole of brilliance.

Eyes like the night, high-cut cheekbones, a mouth that looks both cruel and inviting.

And then I’m not frozen anymore because he moves me.

He lifts me up, puts me over his shoulder, and I make as much noise as possible, swinging and kicking.

“You will not find help here,” he says. “This is a family building.”