RIVAL’S POV
The knock came in three precise taps. Not loud. Not hesitant. Just… deliberate.
I froze halfway through lacing my boot. Thomas, stretched out on the couch with a damp rag pressed to his bruised cheek, sat bolt upright. His eyes were wide, his lips moving soundlessly, like he was trying to name the devil that had just walked up to our door.
I already knew.
“Don’t,” Thomas whispered. “Don’t tell me—”
“It’s him,” I cut in flatly.
His jaw dropped. “How do you even know that?!”
I tugged my boot tight, stood, and brushed off my hands. “Because when we left his apartment earlier, he did something to the door. Fingertips on the hinge. Subtle, quick. Marking it. That’s how he tracks. You didn’t notice because you were too busy sighing like a scared puppy.”
Thomas’s face drained.
