chapter 5
1465 Words
Grace’s POV
The city blurred past as Peter’s car cut through the night like a blade.
My fingers dug into the seatbelt, knuckles pale, as if clinging to the fabric would somehow tether
me back to sanity.
I wasn’t supposed to be here.
I was supposed to be at home, sipping cheap wine, poring over spreadsheets until my eyes
bled, not running from bullets. Not clutching secrets that threatened to burn holes in my chest.
Peter drove in silence, his jaw tight, his gaze fixed forward. The neon glow of streetlamps
slanted across his face, highlighting sharp angles and shadows. He looked like he belonged to
this world of danger, of whispers and broken glass.
Me? I was the intruder.
Finally, I found my voice, though it came out rough. “Where the hell are we going?”
“A safe house,” he said simply.
The way he said it sent a chill through me. The words belonged in spy novels, not in my reality.
Yet here I was, being ferried into one.
I pressed harder. “And after that? What’s your plan, Peter? You hand me a folder with my
father’s, ‘Glass’s’—whatever the hell he was—and then what? You expect me to trust you
blindly?”
His mouth curved into a humorless smile. “I expect you to survive. Trust comes later.”
I scoffed, turning to the darkened window. “You make it sound like you’re some kind of savior.”
“I’m not your savior,” he said flatly. “I’m your only option.”
The car slowed, gliding into an underground garage that smelled of oil and damp concrete. My
heart hammered as the engine cut. Peter slipped out first, scanning the shadows before
gesturing for me to follow. His movements were sharp, efficient, like muscle memory honed from
years of paranoia.
I followed reluctantly, each step echoing in my chest. The elevator ride was silent, tense, the
hum of machinery the only sound between us.
When the doors opened, I braced myself for bare walls and a mattress on the floor. Instead, I
stepped into something that looked almost… elegant.
The loft stretched wide, high ceilings with exposed beams, warm amber lighting spilling over
leather furniture and glass tables. It was disarmingly beautiful, wrong, somehow, for a man
facing murder charges.
I turned slowly. “This is your safe house? It looks like a magazine spread.”
His lips twitched. “Appearances matter. No one suspects danger behind luxury.”
I wanted to argue, but exhaustion pulled at my bones. My hands still bore shallow cuts from the
glass, stinging reminders of how close I’d come to losing everything.
“Sit,” Peter ordered, tossing a first-aid kit onto the table.
I bristled at his tone. “I can handle it myself.”
He raised a brow, an unmistakable challenge there. “You’re bleeding on my floor, Grace. Humor
me.”
I sat, reluctantly. He crouched in front of me, his touch unexpectedly gentle as he cleaned the
cuts. I studied his face as he worked: concentration etched deep, the faint scar near his temple,
the shadows under his eyes that spoke of sleepless nights far deeper than the last few days.
“You’ve done this before,” I murmured.
His gaze flicked up, unreadable. “More times than I’d like.”
The intimacy of the moment pressed against me, heavier than I wanted to admit. I cleared my
throat, breaking the spell. “So this mysterious folder, this ‘Glass’ revelation—you expect me to
just swallow it all and follow you blindly? What if you’re playing me?”
He didn’t flinch. “If I were playing you, you’d already be dead.”
The bluntness of it stole my words.
Before I could respond, the main door clicked open.
I jerked upright, heart stuttering violently. Peter, however, didn’t reach for his gun. Instead, his
posture shifted, relaxing into a stance of familiar, complicated ease.
A woman stepped inside, and for a moment, the atmosphere in the room seemed to compress
around her presence.
She was striking: tall, elegant, with waves of dark hair that framed a face carved from sharp
lines and softer curves. Her dress clung to her like liquid midnight, heels clicking against the
polished concrete floor with lethal grace.
Her eyes landed on me first, curious, assessing. Then they flicked to Peter, and something
unspoken, dense and charged, passed between them.
“Well,” she said, her voice smooth as silk, threaded with amusement. “I didn’t realize you were
entertaining, Peter.”
I bristled immediately. “Who the hell are you?”
She smiled, slow and deliberate, her gaze lingering on me with an unnerving familiarity. “Valeria,
and you must be Grace.”
The way she said my name, like she’d tasted it before, like she already knew me intimately, set
every nerve on edge.
Peter rose smoothly, his posture hardening. “Valeria, what are you doing here?”
She arched a perfectly shaped brow. “That’s a fine welcome.”
“I didn’t call you,” he pressed, sharper this time, the casual tone gone.
Her smile widened, almost predatory. “You don’t need to. You disappear for weeks, whispers of
police and bullets surface, and then I find you holed up here with…” Her gaze flicked to me
again, lingering with cool appraisal. “…Company. Forgive me for being curious.”
Something ugly twisted in my stomach. Ex? The word burned, unspoken but heavy between
them, suggesting a history far deeper than simple acquaintance.
I crossed my arms defensively. “So you’re his… what? Friend? Colleague?”
Valeria’s laugh was soft, musical, and somehow mocking. “Once upon a time, more than that.
But Peter has a way of burning bridges.”
Peter’s jaw tightened. “Enough.”
“Oh, relax.” She stepped closer, her perfume—spiced amber and smoke—curling around me
like an invisible net. “I’m not here to pick a fight. I came to warn you.”
The air shifted instantly. Even Peter stilled, the faint tension around him palpable. “Warn me of
what?” he asked, his voice low.
Her eyes glinted with sudden seriousness. “You’re being watched, both of you.” She let the
words hang, sharp as the glass that had almost killed me minutes ago. “And if you’re not
careful, the next bullet won’t miss.”
A chill scraped down my spine.
“How do you know that?” I asked before Peter could intervene.
Valeria tilted her head, smile still in place, though tempered now by gravity. “Because I know the
people who want you dead, and believe me, they don’t give second chances.”
I swallowed hard, my mind racing. Was she bluffing? Telling the truth? Her voice carried the
weight of certainty that was hard to dismiss.
Peter moved toward her, his stance rigid, proprietary. “You’re playing a dangerous game,
Valeria.”
Her lips curved, slow and dangerous. “I always do.”
The tension in the room was suffocating, a coil wound tight between the three of us.
I forced myself to cut through the charged silence. “Why should we trust anything you say?”
Valeria’s gaze slid back to me, cool and piercing. “Because, darling, I have no reason to lie. If
you die, it complicates things for everyone. If you live…” She let the thought trail, her smile
sharpening to something predatory. “Well, let’s just say survival makes life… interesting.”
The way she said it made my skin prickle with a sensation that wasn't quite fear, but recognition
of a powerful player.
Peter’s hand closed around my arm suddenly, pulling me back a step toward the hallway, putting
distance between us and Valeria. His voice was low, meant only for me. “Don’t let her get in your
head.”
But it was too late. She already had.
Valeria’s soft, musical laughter followed me as Peter pulled me toward the hall. It wasn’t loud,
but it sank into my bones. “Careful, Grace,” she called softly, her words lingering like smoke in
the air. “Trusting Peter is dangerous, but not trusting him? That might kill you faster.”
My heart thudded, the weight of her words sinking deep into the newfound, fragile alliance I’d
formed with Peter.
For the first time since stepping into this mess, I realized something terrifying.
It wasn’t just bullets and shadows I had to survive.
It was people like Valeria: beautiful, dangerous, and playing a game I didn’t even know the rules
to.
And worse?
Some instinct deep inside me whispered that she hadn’t told us everything. Not even close.
- Writer
