With them gone I still don’t feel safe leaving the room alone. I move toward the small vintage box that holds my jewelry and the pocket knife an old lover once gave me. He knew of Doniel—knew what he was capable of—and had pressed the tiny blade into my hand like a promise. I never thought I’d need it, never thought something so small could make me feel protected, but now my hands shake as I lift the lid. The knife is there, warm with memory.
I shouldn’t need this. I shouldn’t have to check if I’m scratched and counting breaths like evidence I survived. The thought that I could have been killed sits in my stomach like ice. Whatever happened tonight was too clean, too practiced. It smells like a trap. But the trap didn’t finish me, and right now I need something to do—something to occupy m
