"Thank you," I said. It came out rough.
"Don't thank me yet. We still have to call the police."
Right. The cops.
Taz sat beside me on the couch, close enough that I could feel the cool of him through two layers of clothing. He didn't crowd me. Just existed in my space, solid and certain, while I pulled out my phone and dialed the non-emergency line.
The call lasted twenty-two minutes.
I knew because I watched the clock on Taz's wall the entire time, tracking the minutes the way I tracked vitals—somethingmeasurable to anchor me while the conversation spiraled into nothing.
The officer who took my report was polite. Professional. And completely, utterly dismissive.
"So nothing was taken?" she asked for the third time.
"No. But things were moved. My deadbolt wasn't fully engaged, and I always—"
"Sir, without evidence of forced entry or stolen property, there's not much we can do. You said yourself the lock wasn't damaged."
"Someone was in my home."
"Is it possible a maintenance worker or building manager accessed your unit? Landlords are required to give notice, but sometimes—"
"It wasn't maintenance." My voice wobbled, and I hated myself for it. "I've been receiving threatening messages from my ex-boyfriend. He showed up at my workplace last week. He tracked me to a private dinner in another city. And now someone has been inside my apartment."
A pause. The sound of typing. "Have you filed a report about the threatening messages?"
"No, I—" I stopped. Because I hadn't. Because I'd deleted them. Because some stupid, self-destructive part of me had decided that handling it alone was better than asking for help. "No."
"I'd recommend documenting any future communications and contacting us if the behavior escalates. In the meantime, you might want to consider changing your locks and speaking with your building management about security protocols."
"That's it?"
"Without physical evidence of a break-in, sir, our hands are tied.” I put the phone down and turned my body into Taz and just held on.
Chapter thirteen
Holding - Grabbing or restraining an opponent with hands, arms, or stick.
Taz
He sat. I sat beside him. And for a long time, neither of us said anything.
The tea went cold in his hands. I watched the steam thin and vanish and didn't push. My dragon was coiled tight, a low vibration of fury I was barely containing—not at Cinder, never at Cinder, but at the man who'd made him look like this. Small. Hunted. Like someone who'd learned to expect the worst and had just been proven right.
"You can take the bed," I said eventually in case he thought I expected anything. "I'll sleep out here."
His head turned. "No."
"Cinder—"
"I'm not sleeping alone tonight." The words were flat, matter-of-fact, delivered with the same clinical precision he used to report vital signs. But his eyes told a different story—wide and dark and holding on to me like I was the last solid thing in a room that wouldn't stop spinning. "If that's okay."
"That's okay," I said immediately. "That's more than okay."
He nodded once, then set the cold tea on the coffee table with deliberate care, like the act of placing a mug required all his concentration. "I keep thinking about what they touched. What they looked at. All my personal info."
"We'll deal with it tomorrow." I reached for his hand. He let me take it. "Tonight you're safe. That's the only thing that matters right now."