Page 15 of Claimed By Lock

But it's more than physical. It's the way he listens. The way he pays attention. The way he saidyour words mean somethingand I actually believed him.

I'm falling. And I don't know how to stop.

I climb the stairs to my apartment, thinking about tomorrow. We made plans — dinner outside of town, somewhere we're less likely to run into anyone. Careful. Cautious.

I'm fitting my key into the lock when I realize the door is already open.

Not wide open. Just ajar. A sliver of darkness visible through the gap.

My blood turns to ice.

I didn't leave it like that. I never leave it like that. I've been paranoid about locks since Colt — since I realized how easy it is for someone to make themselves at home in your space without permission.

I should run. Call the cops. Call Lock.

But I'm tired of being afraid.

I push the door open.

The apartment is dark, the only light from the streetlamp outside. For a moment, I don't see anything wrong.

Then he steps out of the shadows.

"Hey, Josie."

Colt.

My heart slams against my ribs. He's standing between me and the door now, cutting off my exit, and the look on his face makes my stomach turn.

He's not drunk. That might be worse. Drunk Colt is loud and sloppy. Sober Colt is calculated. Controlled. Dangerous in a way that doesn't announce itself.

"How did you get in here?"

"Your landlord's a friendly guy." He shrugs like we're having a casual conversation. "Told him I was your boyfriend. That we had a fight. He believed me."

I'm going to throw up.

"Get out."

"Not until we talk."

"There's nothing to talk about. We're done. We've been done for three months."

"See, that's where you're wrong." He steps closer. I step back. My shoulders hit the wall. "You don't get to just decide we're done. That's not how this works."

"That's exactly how this works." My voice is steadier than I feel. "I broke up with you. You don't get a vote."

His jaw tightens. That flash of anger I know so well — the one that used to make me small, make me careful, make me pick my words like walking through a minefield.

I'm so fucking tired of being careful.

"I heard about you and the Sons guy," Colt says. Quiet now. Dangerous. "Lock. The Sergeant-at-Arms. Word gets around."

My heart pounds. "That's none of your business."

"You're my business."

"I'm not your anything."