Entangled with the Hot Stranger

Savior

Fressia’s POV

I stopped breathing immediately. The darkness of my apartment suddenly felt suffocating, pressing in on me from all sides. I stared at the locked wooden door, watching the brass doorknob slowly jiggle back and forth.

My phone vibrated in my palm, nearly giving me a heart attack.

It was Jordan.

I swiped the screen, pressing it to my ear. "Jordie—" I whispered, my voice barely a thread.

"Fressia," Jordan breathed on the other end, his voice high-pitched and vibrating with panic. "Three men just broke through the back delivery door. They have flashlights. I'm hiding under the inventory desk. They went straight for the stairs."

"Stay hidden. Don't make a sound," I commanded, hanging up.

Adrenaline flooded into my system for the second time today. I crept backward on my bare feet, moving silently into the kitchen to find a weapon.

I opened the cabinet under the sink, my hands flying blindly over the cleaning supplies until I found my emergency pepper spray. In my other hand, I grabbed a heavy metal canister of paint thinner and a rusty box cutter I used for opening canvas shipments.

It wasn't exactly the armory of an action heroine, but I was fully prepared to blind someone and set them on fire if I had to.

A force slammed against my front door, and the wood groaned under the impact.

"It's deadbolted," a second voice muttered from the hallway. "Kick it."

"Make it quick," the gruff voice replied. "Boss said the girl might know something. We take her with us if we have to, but we leave before the cops show."

My blood ran cold.

Another hit connected with the door. The wood around the deadbolt splintered, raining dust onto the floorboards. I backed up until I hit the kitchen counter, raising the canister of paint thinner, my heart hammering violently against my ribs.

A loud crack followed the next hit, the lock beginning to give way. The metal plate bent inward. One more kick, and they were in.

I pulled the cap off the paint thinner and took a shallow breath, ready to fight for my life.

Then—

A gunshot echoed from downstairs in the gallery. It was high-pitched, vibrating up through the floorboards.

The men outside my door froze. The kicking stopped instantly.

Silence reigned like a Greek god in the dark hallway. Even the rain outside seemed to pause.

Then, I heard footsteps.

The men outside my door suddenly started scrambling.

"s**t," one of them hissed, his voice filled with fear. "He's here."

"Draw your weapon, draw your—"

From my side of the door, I couldn't see anything, but I could hear everything. I heard the sickening thud of a body being slammed against the drywall. A man screamed, cut off abruptly by a wet crunch that sounded horribly like bone breaking. A heavy crash rattled the framed photos in my hallway.

A second gunshot rang out, followed by the sound of something heavy collapsing onto the floorboards.

Then, what followed was dead silence.

I stood paralyzed against my kitchen counter, clutching my box cutter, my lungs burning because I had forgotten how to exhale.

The brass doorknob turned. The splintered wood groaned as the door was slowly pushed open.

A tall silhouette filled the doorway, backlit by the faint light from the streetlamp outside the hall window.

My heart stopped when I saw who had walked in.

Inker.

He looked like a beautiful nightmare. His midnight-blue suit jacket was torn at the shoulder. Fresh blood coated the knuckles of his right hand, dripping slowly onto my hardwood floor. Yet, his breathing was completely even.

He was giving off an infuriatingly attractive warlord energy.

I stared at him in the dark, my pepper spray shaking in my hand.

"You..." I choked out, my voice cracking. "You shot someone?!"

He stepped into the apartment, gently pushing the ruined door closed with his foot.

"No," he said, his voice calm as he took a step toward me. “Matteo did."

It was an insane response. The nonchalance of it sent a shiver down my spine, but a twisted, completely irrational part of my brain was relieved.

Before I could process it, he closed the distance between us in two long strides. He didn't ask for permission. His large hands immediately went to my waist, dropped to my arms, checked my shoulders, and tilted my chin up. His touch was frantic, contrasting wildly with his calm face.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, his icy silver eyes scanning my face in the dark. "Did they touch you?"

"No," I whispered. "They didn't get in."

When he realized I was unharmed, the rigid tension in his shoulders instantly melted. A visible, heavy wave of relief washed over his sharp features. For a fraction of a second, his thumb brushed against my cheekbone—a touch so tender it made my breath hitch.

Then, the relief vanished, replaced instantly by anger.

"Why didn't you call me?" he growled, his grip on my waist tightening slightly. "I gave you my number. The second your power went out, you should have dialed it."

I was taken aback by the audacity of this man. The adrenaline in my veins converted instantly into rage.

"Are you insane?" I snapped back, shoving his chest. It was like shoving a brick wall. "I barely know you! You're a stranger who hid in my closet and ruined my gallery floor! Why would my first instinct be to call you?"

His jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. He stepped closer, crowding me against the counter, and forcing me to look up into his eyes.

"Exactly," he said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Which means this happened because of me."

That sentence hung in the air between us.

I stared up at him, my anger faltering. "Who are you, Inker? Tell me the truth. Because normal people don't have men named Matteo executing people in other people’s hallways."

He stared down at me. For a moment, a flash of genuine conflict crossed his eyes. He then slowly removed his hands from my waist, stepping back to give me space.

"I used to work for very dangerous people. I handled money. Large amounts of it. I'm trying to leave that life behind, and my former employers... disagree with my resignation."

I wanted to distrust him. I wanted to scream at him to get out of my apartment and call the police.

But as he adjusted the torn cuff of his suit, the moonlight caught his wrist.

Beneath his expensive watch, wrapped around his pale skin, were deep, dark purple bruises. They looked exactly like the marks left by heavy industrial restraints. Rope burns.

My stomach twisted. Was he a villain? Or was he really a victim trying to escape? The ambiguity of it all was paralyzing.

"I have a flashlight," I muttered, setting down my makeshift weapons. "Let me find some candles."

Ten minutes later, the adrenaline had somewhat faded. I had lit half a dozen vanilla-scented candles, placing them around the living room. The soft, flickering light cast dancing shadows against the walls, transforming the apartment into something unexpectedly intimate.

Inker had taken his ruined jacket off, rolling up his bloodstained sleeves to reveal heavily corded forearms. He was walking slowly around my living room, inspecting the canvases I had leaning against the walls.

The mood had softened entirely. The danger outside felt a million miles away, replaced by the pull between us in the quiet room.

He paused in front of a specific painting in the corner.

It was an abstract piece I had painted years ago. A chaotic clash of deep blues, jagged grays, and harsh white lines. It was supposed to be a harbor, painted entirely from fragments of childhood memories I had with my late father.

Inker stared at it for a few seconds. I watched as his expression shifted subtly. The cold mask slipped for just a second, replaced by a sharp, calculating intensity. His eyes traced the lines of the harbor docks I had painted, as if he were reading a map rather than looking at art.

"You painted this?" he asked, his voice sounding overly casual.

"Yeah," I said, wrapping my arms around myself. "A long time ago. It's based on a place my dad used to take me before he died."

He slowly turned his head to look at me, his silver eyes completely unreadable.

"Did your father ever talk about ports, Fressia?"

I frowned, caught off guard by the strange question. "Ports? No. He was an accountant. Why?"

He held my gaze for a moment too long. He looked back at the painting, sliding his hands into his tailored pockets.

"No reason," he murmured.

But as he stared at the canvas, the tension in the room thickened, heavy with a secret I couldn't understand.

I knew he was lying. There was definitely a reason.