His hand came up—not harsh, not rough, just firm. A single large palm closing gently around my forearm. I froze mid-step.
“I didn’t ask your name,” he said.
The air caught in my lungs. My heart stuttered, then lurched into a sprint. I looked down at his hand first—his fingers wrapped around my arm, the heat of his skin burning through the thin fabric of my sleeve—before I looked up at his face.
That was a mistake.
His gaze was steady. Direct. Unapologetically searching. And terrifying.
My mind scrambled, words clawing for purchase. Name. Name. Name. My real name dangled at the edge of my tongue, aching to be spoken—but I couldn’t. Not to him. And then—my eyes caught on the bedside table just to my left. A single glass vase stood there, delicate and clear, catching the dying light like
