Chapter 9: 3am
The deep, velvet quiet of the apartment shattered at 3 AM.
The noise wasn’t a knock. It was a barrage—a furious, pounding hammering on the cheap wood of the front door, followed by a muffled, enraged shout. “Mya! Open this goddamn door! I know you’re in there!”
Craig, drifting in the shallow waters of almost-sleep on the air mattress, was on his feet before his eyes were fully open. Adrenaline burned through the grogginess, sharp and metallic. Across the room, Mya jolted upright. Her eyes were wide, swallowing the dark. A frightened gasp hitched in her throat as she reached a shaking hand out, fumbling for her glasses on the nightstand.
He moved. He grabbed his shoes, pulling them on without tying them. He stopped at the edge of her bed, didn’t speak, just leaned down and scooped her up, blanket and all. She was rigid in his arms, a bundle of terrified tension.
He carried her into the small bathroom, the chill of the tiles seeping through his socks. He set her down gently on the closed lid of the toilet. He took her face in his hands, his thumbs stroking her cheeks. Her skin was cold. He leaned in and pressed a firm, deliberate kiss to her forehead.
“Don’t come out,” he whispered, his voice low and utterly calm. “Not for anything.”
He left the bathroom door ajar, not wanting to lock her in, to make her feel trapped. He needed her to hear, to know it was over, but he didn’t want her to see.
The pounding came again, louder. “Answer me!”
Craig crossed the main room, his movements silent and efficient. He didn’t bother with the chain or the deadbolt. He simply turned the knob and yanked the door open.
Derek stood there, silhouetted by the sickly yellow hall light. He looked like hell—clothes rumpled, eyes bloodshot and wild, his face flushed with rage and cheap beer. The smell of it wafted in. He blinked, his furious diatribe dying in his throat as he registered Craig standing there, shirtless, in sweats and untied shoes.
“What are you doing here?” Derek finally spat, his voice trembling with outrage.
Craig leaned against the doorframe, blocking the entire entrance. His expression was bored, icy. “You have five seconds to lower your voice, or you’re losing it.”
“Get out of my girlfriend’s house!” Derek roared, spittle flying.
“Ex-girlfriend,” Craig corrected, his tone conversational. “And I believe you owe me seventeen thousand dollars. Ya got it? Or am I busting kneecaps?”
Derek’s bravado faltered for a second, a flicker of the fear Marco had reported flashing in his eyes. But the alcohol and jealousy boiled it away. “You can’t just threaten me!”
“I’m promising you. I dislike you, Derek. Being around me is a risk that will not pay off.”
Derek’s gaze darted past Craig, searching the dark apartment for a sign of her. His face twisted into a sneer of pure venom. “You’re turning her into a whore.”
Craig’s bored mask didn’t slip. He just started counting, his voice flat. “Five.”
“Mya! You slut! Get out here!”
“Four.”
“You hear me? After everything! You’re nothing!”
“Three.”
Derek screamed past him, his voice raw and cracking, aimed into the dark apartment. “You’re a filthy little SLUT!”
Craig snapped.
The countdown stopped. In one fluid motion, he stepped forward and drove his fist hard into the soft cavity of Derek’s stomach.
It wasn’t a knockout punch. It was a message. The air left Derek in a pained, voiceless whoosh. He doubled over, choking, hands flying to his abdomen as he stumbled back into the hallway wall, sliding down it until he was kneeling on the dirty carpet, retching.
Craig stood over him, his own knuckles throbbing. He felt no rage, just a cold, clean efficiency. He leaned down, his voice a deadly whisper in the quiet hall. “Get in your car. Drive away. Now. If I see you within a mile of this building again, I won’t be aiming for your stomach.”
Derek, tears of pain and humiliation in his eyes, managed a ragged nod. He pushed himself up, clutching his gut, and hobbled quickly away toward the stairwell, his footsteps uneven and frantic.
Craig watched until the stairwell door slammed shut. Then he stepped back inside, closed the front door, and engaged the deadbolt with a solid, final thunk.
The silence that followed was ringing, thick with the echo of violence. He took a deep breath, unclenching his fist, feeling the heat in his knuckles. He looked toward the bathroom.
The door was still ajar. He walked over and pushed it open gently.
She was exactly where he’d left her, perched on the toilet lid. Her shoulders were slumped, her face buried in her hands. Silent, body-wracking shudders moved through her. The sound that escaped was a muffled, broken thing, all the more heartbreaking for its quietness.
“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice rough. He knelt on the cold tiles in front of her. “It’s okay. It’s over.”
He reached out, his hands sliding under her arms, and lifted her off the lid. He pulled her into his chest, one arm wrapping tightly around her back, the other hand cupping the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her curls. He held her as she cried, the tremors slowly subsiding from violent shakes to gentle shivers. He rested his cheek against her hair and kissed the top of her head.
“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” he murmured into her hair.
She pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him. Her glasses were askew, her face blotchy and wet. “Did you… hurt him?”
“He’ll have a stomachache tomorrow. That’s it.” He brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “He won’t come back tonight.”
She searched his face, her blue eyes wide and impossibly deep. “You counted down.”
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. “I’m a man of my word. I said I’d give him five seconds.”
A hiccupping sound escaped her, something halfway between a sob and a laugh. She buried her face back in his neck. “I hate that I’m scared. I hate that he can still make me feel like this.”“You’re not scared of him,” Craig said, his hand rubbing slow circles on her back. “You’re scared of the memory. There’s a difference. The memory can’t punch you.” stayed there, her breath warming his skin, for a long moment. The tremors had finally stilled. Then, muffled against his chest, her voice was a ragged whisper. “When he got that mad… he’d lock me in a closet. He’d make me call in sick, then just leave for the dayCraig didn’t move. The words landed inside him like shards of glass, slicing through the last of his detachment. He saw the bowing bookshelves, her quiet intelligence, the photograph of the muddy, happy girl. He saw it all caged in darkness by a man whose voice still echoed in the hall.
A cold, clarifying fury settled in his bones, but his hands on her were gentle. He said nothing. He simply bent his knees, slid one arm under her legs, and lifted her. She didn’t stiffen this time. She curled into him, her arms looping around his neck, her face still hidden.
He carried her to the bed and sat her on the edge of the flowered comforter. She didn’t pull away. So he sat beside her, their hips and shoulders touching. He pulled the blanket around them both, a shared shield against the lingering chill of the night.
Then he shifted, laying back and guiding her down with him. She settled against his side, her head finding the hollow of his shoulder as if it belonged there. One of his arms stayed beneath her neck, the other stretched across her body, his hand beginning a slow, steady rub along her spine.
He kissed her forehead, once, twice, a soft punctuation in the dark. “He’s never touching you again,” he said, the words a low vow into her hair. “Not a door, not a closet. Nothing.”
She nodded, a slight movement against him. Her fingers, which had been fisted in his shirt, slowly relaxed, splaying open over his heart. “I believe you.”
They lay like that in the quiet. The only light came from the streetlamp outside, painting stripes across the ceiling and over the inflated mattress still stranded on the floor. His thumb traced idle circles between her shoulder blades. Her breathing deepened, evening out, syncing with the slow, solid rhythm of his heart under her palm.
“My feet are cold,” she murmured after a while, her voice thick with impending sleep.
He chuckled, the sound a quiet rumble in his chest. He shifted, hooking one of his bare feet over her icy toes. “Better?”
“Mm. A little.” She wiggled them, nestling them against his warmer skin. “Your feet are kind of gross, though. You were walking on the floor.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, squeezing her gently. “Complaining to your five-star foot warmer.”
She smiled, he felt it against his skin. Silence wrapped around them again, but it was different from the tense quiet before the pounding. This was heavy, and soft, and exhausted. He listened to her breathe, felt the exact moment sleep pulled her under completely—a final, soft sigh, a total loosening of her limbs.
He stared at the ceiling, wide awake. His mind replayed the feel of his fist connecting, the ugly sound Derek had made. It replayed her muffled confession, the sheer, mundane cruelty of a closet door locking. The two images welded together in his mind, forging a new, unshakable resolve.
His phone buzzed on the nightstand where he’d left it, a brief, discreet pulse. Carefully, he extracted his arm from under Mya, letting her head sink into the pillow. She sighed but didn’t wake. He grabbed the phone.
A text from Marco. All quiet on the western front?
Craig typed back, his movements precise. Sorted. He won’t be back. Need a favor in the AM.
The reply was instant. Name it.
Two things. First, I need a new number for her. Burner’s fine for now. Second, I need a list of every property my father owns that’s vacant, remote, and has a security system installed last decade.
There was a longer pause. Three dots appeared, disappeared, then appeared again.
You moving her, or disappearing with her?
Craig looked at the woman sleeping beside him, her blonde curls stark against his black t-shirt. Just covering bases. Don’t make a thing out of it.
Wouldn’t dream of it, Marco replied. I’ll text you a list by 10. You gonna tell her?
Not yet. Craig set the phone back down. He slid his arm back under Mya’s neck, and she immediately curled back into him, a wordless murmur of contentment escaping her lips. He pressed his nose into her hair, breathing in lavender and sleep.
“Just covering bases, sweetheart,” he whispered to the dark room, to the silent bookshelves keeping watch. He held her closer, anchoring them both.
He held her closer, anchoring them both, until his own frantic thoughts finally quieted and sleep pulled him under a deep, black wave.
Craig woke up hours later, warm and more comfortable than he’d felt in years. A heavy, delicious warmth pressed along the entire length of his body. His and Mya’s legs were tangled up in each other, a mess of linen and bare skin. She was mostly laying on top of him, her head a perfect weight on his chest, one of his arms wrapped around her holding her in place. Her shirt had ridden up during the night, so his palm was touching smooth, soft skin on the small of her back. His other hand was still gently holding her head to him, his fingers laced in her curls. He didn’t want to get up. He wanted to memorize the exact pressure of her knee hooked over his thigh, the rhythm of her breath puffing against his collarbone, the way the morning light turned her hair to spun gold.
He lay perfectly still, afraid to break the spell. The apartment was silent except for distant city sounds—a garbage truck, a siren blocks away. The air mattress on the floor looked absurd, a deflated monument to his failed good intentions. He smirked at the ceiling. He’d lasted maybe an hour on it.
A soft vibration buzzed against his hip, under her leg. His phone, muffled. He ignored it. He turned his head just enough to press his lips to her forehead. She stirred, a gentle shift of her limbs. Her hand, which had been curled on his chest, slid upwards, her fingers brushing the line of his jaw, rough with stubble.
Her eyes fluttered open. Blue, clear, and utterly unguarded for three full seconds before awareness returned. She didn’t jerk away. She blinked, her gaze focusing on his face from inches away. A slow, faint pink crept into her cheeks.
“Hi,” she whispered, her voice gravelly with sleep.
“Hey,” he whispered back, his thumb moving in a tiny arc on her bare skin.
“We’re not on the air mattress.”
“Observant.” He grinned. “Your feet were cold. I was providing a vital service.”
She gave a soft snort, her nose scrunching. “I fell asleep.”
“You did.” He watched her, the way she was processing it—the intimacy, the peace, the lack of panic. “You okay?”
She considered it, her eyes searching his. The fear from the night before was gone, replaced by a tentative, dawning warmth. “Yeah. I am.” She shifted slightly, propping her chin on his chest. “Your arm must be dead.”
“It’s fine.” It was completely numb. He didn’t care.
The phone buzzed again, insistently. She felt it this time and tilted her head. “Someone’s eager.”
“Ignore it.”
“It might be important.”
With a sigh, he reluctantly extracted his arm from under her, shaking out the pins and needles. He grabbed the phone from the tangled sheets. Two texts from Marco. The first was a list of three addresses with brief notes. Riverhouse, gated, alarm. North Lodge, 20 acres, camera system. Seaside flat, quiet, panic room. The second text read: Burner phone and SIM card in glove box of the black Audi parked behind your car. Keys in the usual spot.
“Everything okay?” Mya asked, her voice threaded with a new, slight tension.
“Everything’s fine,” he said, tossing the phone back on the nightstand. He rolled towards her, trapping her gently beneath him, bracing himself on his forearms beside her head. He needed to erase the worry line between her brows. “Marco just had some info for me. Boring stuff.”
“The kind of boring stuff that involves lists?” Her intelligence, usually softened, was sharp and fully present in the morning light.
“The kind of boring stuff that means you shouldn’t go back to your coffee shop for a few days.” He brushed a curl from her cheek. “Derek knows where you work. He’s volatile. I don’t want him near you.”
She absorbed this, her eyes scanning his face. “A few days. Then what?”
“We’ll see.” He lowered his head and kissed her, a slow, deep, claiming kiss that left them both breathless. When he pulled back, her cheeks were flushed a deeper pink. “First, we get up. We get that burner phone. Then, I’m making you breakfast because I guarantee you have nothing edible here.”
Then, I’m making you breakfast because I guarantee you have nothing edible here.”
He dipped his head and kissed her again, a softer, lingering press that tasted like sleep and something sweeter, something uniquely her. When he finally pulled back, her eyes were hazy, her lips slightly parted.
She was still slightly dazed, then said, “You’re getting very comfortable kissing me.”
He didn’t move away. He hovered, his dark eyes searching hers, the smirk replaced by something more serious. “Yeah,” he admitted, his voice a low rasp. “I am. Got a problem with that?”
“Got a problem with that?”
She held his gaze, her blue eyes steady despite the flush on her cheeks. She didn’t look away. Then she shrugged, a small, self-conscious movement of her shoulders under his weight. “It’s just different. I’m just used to, like, dating for like two or three months before kissing. I never had a guy sleep over. So. Lots of firsts.”
Her words hung in the space between them, so honest they stole his breath. They laid bare the stark, ugly contrast of her past. Two months for a kiss. A locked closet for displeasure. He saw the calculation in Derek’s system—the starvation of basic touch, the weaponization of anticipation, all to make her grateful for crumbs.
A hot, protective surge tightened his chest. He lowered himself until his forehead rested against hers, closing his eyes for a second. When he opened them, his usual smirk was gone, replaced by an intensity that felt raw.
“Derek’s an idiot,” he murmured, his voice rough. “A controlling, violent idiot.” He brushed his nose against hers. “Those weren’t rules, sweetheart. They were punishments.”
She let out a shaky breath that warmed his lips. “It felt normal. For a long time, it just felt like how things were supposed to be.”
“Well, it’s not.” He kissed the tip of her nose, then each eyelid, feeling her lashes flutter against his lips. “We do this at whatever speed you want. You say stop, we stop. Full stop.” He pulled back just enough to see her whole face. “But for the record? Waiting two months to do this would have driven me insane.”
A real smile, small but genuine, touched her mouth. “Noted.”
His phone buzzed again on the nightstand, a rude intrusion. He ignored it, focused on the way her body was softening beneath his, the last vestiges of tension dissolving. But the real world, his world, was pressing in. The texts from Marco, the list of safe houses, the black Audi waiting outside—it was all a silent alarm.
“I need to check that,” he said, reluctance weighting the words. He rolled off her, the morning air cool where their bodies had been joined. He grabbed the phone, scanning Marco’s latest. Audi is clear and clean. You need food?
Yes. The good kind, he typed back. Give us an hour.
He tossed the phone aside and looked at her. She was sitting up now, the flowered comforter pooled around her waist, her hair a magnificent, tangled halo. She watched him, that quiet observation back in place.
“You’re worrying,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
“I’m planning,” he corrected, swinging his legs off the bed. He stood, offering her his hand. “First, we get you that new phone. Then, breakfast that doesn’t come from a stale box in your cupboard. Then, we talk about where you might want to spend a few days that isn’t here.”
She took his hand, her fingers cool in his. “A few days somewhere else.”
“Just a precaution.” He pulled her up, keeping her close. “He knows this place. He’s humiliated and drunk on rage. That’s a bad combo.” He could see the protest forming in her mind—her books, her routine, the fragile independence this studio represented. “We’ll pack a bag for you. Whatever you need.”
Whatever you need.”
She didn’t let go of his hand. Her grip tightened, just for a second. The morning light cut across her face, highlighting the freckles dusting her nose, the stubborn set of her jaw. “Craig. Wait.”
He waited. He could feel the ‘but’ coming, a familiar resistance he’d seen in her eyes since the VIP lounge.
She pulled her hand from his and crossed her arms over the soft gray fabric of her shirt. The movement was defensive, but her voice was calm, reasoned. “I feel like you’re blowing this out of proportion. He’s an idiot, but again, he’s scared of you. If he bugs me at work, I call the police. Most of my life is being around people. I’ll be fine.”
She took a breath, her gaze steady on his. “He might’ve taken loans from you, but he’s not going to be all grumpy. He’s just going to be all sad and apologetic. That’s his pattern. It’s what he does.”
Craig stared at her. The logic was sound, and that made it infinitely more dangerous. He could see the entire pathetic cycle laid out in her words: the outburst, the remorse, the hollow promises, her forgiveness. The closet door. His voice dropped, low and flat. “And what? You’ll take him back?”
She raised an eyebrow, a flash of sharp wit cutting through the morning’s softness. “No. After knowing about his greed getting him tied up in a mess? That was kind of the nail in the coffin.”
The relief that washed through him was immediate and shocking in its intensity. It wasn’t about possession, not entirely. It was the visceral fear of her willingly walking back into the path of a man whose hands had left maps on her skin. He scrubbed a hand over his face, the stubble rough under his palm. “Good. That’s… good, Mya. But you’re missing the point.”
“What point?”
“That ‘sad and apologetic’ is just another kind of trap. And it doesn’t matter if he’s scared of me.” He stepped closer, crowding her space gently, needing her to hear this. “A scared animal is the most dangerous kind. It doesn’t think. It just reacts. He wasn’t thinking last night when he showed up here screaming. What’s he not going to think about next time?”