NERO: Alliance Series Book One

The click of the door closing snaps me out of the trance I’ve been stuck in since he showed up in my living room.

Scrambling off the couch, I stumble my way to the door. My legs rubber beneath me.

I press my hands against the cheap wood, steadying myself.

My whole body is trembling, like the adrenaline that should’ve been coursing through me all night finally hit, all at once.

Breathe.

He’s gone, just breathe.

Slowly, I lift my head until my eye is lined up with the peephole.

Taking another breath, I lean closer and look through.

A startled gasp clogs my throat.

Standing in the hallway, the man is staring back at me. Like he knew I’d look out.

He lifts a hand and points to the door handle.

Jerking my head away, I have to try twice before I flip the deadbolt into place.

My chest hurts from how frantic my heart is beating.

It’s locked.

He can’t get in now.

A voice in the corner of my mind whispers that something as simple as a lock wouldn’t be able to keep that man out.

That man. Whoever he is.

Knowing I won’t be able to walk away without checking, I put my eye back to the peephole, just in time to see him stride out of view.

I stay like that, watching the hallway, for too long. The sight of him pointing at my door burned into my memory.

 I already thought he was dangerously handsome, but seeing him in the light confirms that he’s so much more handsome than I thought.

His sharp features and firm body make me think he might be in his thirties, maybe late thirties. And his eyes…

I’m all too familiar with the look of someone who’s experienced too much trauma. I see it every day when I look in the mirror. His eyes shine with a history I’m all too aware of.

A door bangs shut somewhere on my floor, reminding me that I’m not alone in this building.

I wonder if anyone else saw my mystery man as he left.

The thought has me finally pulling my eye away from the door and turning back toward the living room.

My limbs are still trembling, but I’m now able to stand upright on my own.

I’m halfway to the patio doors when I see that they’re already closed. I cross the rest of the distance and see that the latch has been flipped and the loose length of board has been laid back in the track. My poor man’s barricade.

It’s as secure as it’s ever gonna get, and yet…

My arms wrap around my body, fighting off a shiver.

I’d let the blanket drop when I climbed off the couch, and now a chill has seeped into the center of my body.

Payton.

The memory of him saying my name sends another shiver skittering across my skin.

The power of a name. It’s something so simple, but it can make you feel so exposed. He held the power the moment he walked through my patio door. Not knowing his name puts us on even more uneven ground. Because I have nothing to call him. Nothing to shout. Nothing to tell anyone.

Staring at the limp curtains, I wonder if maybe I made it all up. Maybe my mind has finally cracked. Maybe I was asleep the whole time. Dreamed him.

My hand reaches up to rub over the spot where his hand had been, on my exposed skin.

He can’t be fake. His touch was real. It has to be. Because the way my body reacted––that was real.

My nipples are tight against the thin fabric of my sleep shirt, making me all too aware of the fact that I’m not wearing a bra.

Jesus, who cares, Payton?

Plus I had the blanket pulled up, hiding my body from his view.

Except when I woke up, when his hand was against the base of my throat, his palm against my chest, the blanket wasn’t pulled up then.

Did he pull it away, or did I drop it?

I shake my head at that thought because I would’ve woken up if he’d pulled the blanket away.

But I didn’t.

I shake my head harder.

He didn’t touch me. Not like that. I’d know. I’d know.

And why would he?

He’s so handsome. So large and masculine and pure male perfection. Someone like him would have no time for someone like me––soft and scared––who only runs when they’re running from the past.

I hug myself tighter.

Not now. I don’t have time for a mental breakdown now.

Glancing at the clock, I curse. It’s after midnight already. Puffing out my cheeks, I decide I’ll catch an Uber to work, rather than take the bus. It will blow half a day’s pay, but give me an extra twenty minutes of sleeping, so it’ll be worth it.

Which is good in theory, but I already know that I won’t get any rest.

Unplugging my phone from its spot on the counter, I notice one of my pieces of mail is askew.

Pinching the edge of the envelope, I pull it free from the stack.

Like a shiny beacon, my name is printed right there for me, and my intruder, to see.

“Great.”

Not able to walk away with the mail not in place, I quickly straighten the pile.

I hate when things are out of place. Hate it so much. The sight of clutter sends me down a dark spiral. I’ve lived in a filthy home before. Never again.

Leaving the light on––like it will stop any more monsters from entering my home––I head into my bedroom, happy to see that this room looks untouched.