Page 43 of This Life of Mine

He’s right behind me.

Before I can open the door, his fist tangles in my hair again. He yanks, and my head dives backward, a cry ripping from my throat as he spins me around and slams me against the car so forcefully it rattles the entire frame.

Suddenly, he’s vanished.

One second he’s there, the next he’s lifted clean off the ground like he weighs nothing at all.

Holy shit.Alex?

Alex has Cole by the throat and arm in a single fluid motion, then hurls him aside with brutal precision. Cole slams into the pavement, the impact knocking every ounce of fight out of him.

Alex steps between us without a word. Solid and unmoving. A wall.

I sag against my car, shaking so violently I can barely breathe.

But I’m upright.

I’m free.

Chapter fourteen

Alex

Running is the only thing that quiets my head. The streets are empty, the air crisp. My breath stays steady beneath the hood of my black sweat suit. Hands loose. Every step measured. My pace is easy, even as my thoughts refuse to settle.

I tell myself I’m out here to burn off restless energy.

It’s a lie.

I’m trying to outrun the image of Lina with EJ.

The way he looked at her. The easy familiarity between them. I know better than to let my imagination fill in the spaces I didn’t witness, but it does anyway, conjuring possibilities I have no business entertaining.

I don’t like what it stirs in me.

So I run harder, letting the rhythm of my feet pound those thoughts into the pavement.

It doesn’t work.

It’s only been six weeks since I got here.

I didn’t start showing up at her shop until three weeks ago. The first stretch was all set up—phones, cameras, and sightlines. Redundancies layered over redundancies.

Order and procedure.

Six weeks shouldn’t be enough time to care like this. It’s barely enough time to map routines, learn habits, and build patterns.

It should be clinical. Observational. Detached.

I shouldn’t be aware of which mornings she arrives earlier than usual because of sleepless nights. I shouldn’t recognize the way she sits in her car staring at her shop, daydreaming. I shouldn’t be able to tell the difference between her distracted focus and her peaceful one from across the street.

That wasn’t the plan.

Redwood was supposed to be a vantage point, not a fucking temptation. A place to track entrances and exits. To notice who lingered and who didn’t belong. To find the threat so we can get to the bottom of something much bigger.

Somewhere between the second week and the third, distance was no longer adequate.

Something inconvenient wanted proximity. Closeness. Like the camera picture wouldn’t focus unless I was inside the room.