Desmond Loupé
Groaning, Desmond reached out, fumbling around his bedside table with clumsy hands, his vision blurry from sleep. He finally made contact with his phone, pulling it toward him, his fingers trembling. He squinted at the screen, still disoriented. One new message. Intruder in my house.
That single text shot through him like a bolt of lightning. His heart stuttered, and in a flash, the fog of sleep vanished. Adrenaline surged through his veins, every muscle tightening with urgency.
Without a second thought, Desmond threw off the covers, the cold air of his room biting at his skin. He was out of bed in an instant, his legs nearly giving way beneath him as he stumbled toward the dresser. Sweatpants—he barely managed to tug them on, his movements frantic. A t-shirt followed, bar
