PROLOGUE
I don’t sleep anymore.
Not properly.
Not without seeing him.
Or remembering the way his hands felt around my throat?—
—and the way my body learned him.
CHAPTER 1
SOREN
I’ve already memorized her.
Not in the superficial way people memorize faces they find attractive or noteworthy, filing them away for later recognition before forgetting them entirely.
No—what I know about her is far more precise, far more invasive. The unconscious patterns her body betrays. The small, unguarded moments that slip through the cracks of her control.
I know the exact way her attention fractures when she feels watched, even when there’s nothing there.
I know how long she hesitates before stepping into a space she cannot fully account for. Three seconds, today. It was four yesterday.
She stands just outside the building, her reflection caught in the glass panel next to the front door, but her focus is misaligned.
She isn’t looking at herself, not really. Her gaze passes over her own image, searching the space behind it, scanning for movement, for confirmation. For something she doesn’t trust enough to name.
It’s subtle enough that no one else would notice.
But it’s there.
And I do.
She glances around, nearly jumping at the sound of a car starting up in the adjacent parking lot. I know she’s used to living in secure apartment buildings—ones needing a fob or keycard to get into. Often with a concierge waiting to greet, and make sure the people entering are actually meant to be there.
Here, it’s just a front door. Like a house that happens to sit in the middle of a bustling city. It’s on an island, which offers a little reprieve—but it’s still Miami. Which means it’s still loud, chaotic.
So she’s unsettled. Out of place. Hesitant to let people see inside when she opens the door just enough to squeeze through. Worried someone is going to follow her, overpower her on her way in.
Once she finally steps inside, she scouts the room for signs of anyone else. When she confirms she’s alone, the shift is immediate. Her shoulders settle into place, her expression smooths into something neutral and composed, and her movements take on a careful, deliberate rhythm that suggests ease without ever fully achieving it.
It’s still a performance—albeit a refined one—honed through repetition and necessity. Anyone watching her now would assume she belongs here, that she moves through the world without friction or resistance.
They would be wrong.
She kicks off her shoes, allowing herself a sigh. Exhaustion or relief—perhaps both. Then, glancing at them, she lines them up neatly next to the much larger men’s shoes on the rack by the door.
The mirrored doors leading into the kitchen reflect her clearly.
She doesn’t look at them.
That, more than anything, interests me.
Most people are drawn to their own reflection—compelled toadjust, to refine, to ensure the version of themselves presented to the world aligns with expectation.
But she avoids it entirely, as though acknowledging her own image might expose something she isn’t prepared to confront. Or confirm.