Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 385(@200wpm)___ 308(@250wpm)___ 257(@300wpm)
And that’s when I realize I’m done for.
There’s no coming back from this.
Not from the way she makes me feel when she smiles. Not from the way her name tastes like something I’ve been starving for. Not from the way my chest aches every time she looks scared—and the way it eases when she breathes again.
Arrow’s words echo in my head. You can’t protect her from behind the mask and hold her hand.
He’s right. But I’m already falling, and the ground’s coming up fast.
So I keep watch.
The vigilante.
The ghost.
The idiot who’s already in too deep.
Because as long as she’s safe, I can live with the rest.
Even if it kills me.
NINE
RIVER
I don’t leave the bed for the first two hours I’m awake.
It’s a weird thing, feeling safe and still feeling like you might unravel at any moment. The Riverside safe house is warm, clean, quiet. There’s food in the cabinets, fluffy towels in the bathroom, and a cute lavender plant on the counter with a note in unfamiliar handwriting: Grow wild, stay grounded.
And still, I jump when the fridge hums.
I have the day off. Thank god for weekends. But rest is impossible when your brain keeps imagining shadows in the corners and phantom footsteps outside every window.
I sip bad coffee in silence and reread the message.
MASK: Sleep. You’re safe here.
His words echo louder than the voice in my own head.
By noon, I’m pacing.
By one, I’ve put on running shoes and shadow-boxed in the hallway like a cartoon version of myself who thinks she can suddenly take on the world.
By one-fifteen, I realize I’m hopeless and furious about it.
I open the encrypted chat.
ME: Can you teach me how to fight?
There’s a beat of silence, then:
MASK: Rule #1: Obey me.
Rule #2: No questions.
Rule #3: Seriously, no questions. Be ready in ten. Hoodie, sneakers. Tie your hair back.
He doesn’t knock when he gets here.
The door clicks once—keypad—and swings open to a man in a black hoodie, Ghostface mask, and gloves. His presence fills the doorway like a shadow wearing intention. He doesn’t speak as he steps inside and shuts the door behind him.
I freeze, halfway to the kitchen.
He nods once. “Let’s begin.”
His voice is low. Calm. It makes my breath snag. It also sounds…almost familiar. He’s using a voice changer, but still the inflection is something I feel like I’ve heard before.
I squint, trying to place it, but he’s already moving the coffee table out of the way and rolling out a mat I didn’t realize was under his arm.
“What do I call you?” I ask, then immediately regret it.
He looks at me—dark eyes behind the mask unreadable. “You don’t.”
Right. Rules.
Still, something about the cadence of his words, the slight rasp—ugh, it’s going to drive me crazy.
“Stand here,” he says, pointing to the center of the mat. I obey, palms sweating. I feel ridiculous, suddenly self-conscious in my worn leggings and hoodie.
“Fists up.”
I mimic what I’ve seen in movies.
“No,” he says, stepping closer. He takes my wrist gently, tilting it.
“Your thumb wraps outside, not under. Unless you want a sprained joint.”
The correction sends a jolt through me—not from pain, but from how close he is. His fingers linger, warm and steady. I can feel the heat of him even through his gloves.
“Try again.”
I adjust. He nods.
Then, in a blur, he steps into my space and taps my shoulder. I stumble.
“Center of gravity,” he says. “You’re leaning. Too reactive. You need to be grounded.” He taps my foot with his own. “Shift. There. Better.”
My heart’s hammering so loud I’m sure he can hear it.
I raise my fists again, and this time he nods with approval.
“You want to survive?” he asks. “Then move like it.”
He lunges again, slower now, showing me how to deflect. We go through the same motion over and over. Hands. Shoulders. Steps. Each correction comes with a touch—his hand on my elbow, his palm grazing my hip to guide my stance.
Every single one lights up my nerves like a live wire.
And the worst part?
I like it. I like how calm he is, how sure. How I don’t feel stupid in front of him, even when I mess up. He doesn’t judge. He just resets and teaches.
“You’re doing better,” he murmurs.
I glance up—eyes locking on the black eyes of the mask.
Who is this man? How does he even know me?
I whisper, “Have we met before?”
He freezes.
Just for a second.
But then he steps back. “That’s enough for today.”
I nod, swallowing the question. No questions.
He kneels, rolls the mat back up in a single sweep, and strides to the door without another word.
“Wait,” I say, taking a step forward. “Thank you.”
He pauses with one hand on the handle.
“You asked how to fight,” he says without turning around. “But you already know how to survive.”
Then he’s gone.
That night, I sit on the floor, still flushed and sweating from the impromptu lesson, and try to come up with any reason why that voice reminds me of someone I see every day.