It’s not long before I hone in on an escalating argument. The hour after the bars close is always busiest; fortunately, distinguishing between harmless drunk blathering and slurring that drips with bad intention comes naturally to me now. The car screeches when I yank the steering wheel, and my foot weighs on the pedal when a woman screams. Every muscle in my body strains as if to split my skin. My unsatisfied arousal sits too close to the surface. I almost welcome the stench of the East Side’s garbage—garbage that exists for me to clean up.

I throw the car in park and exit swiftly. An easy jump has me hanging from the fire escape. I haul myself up and take the stairs two at a time until I’m outside an apartment window. I put my fist through the glass, and instantly the woman’s piercing screams become surround sound. A man’s alcohol-laden curses hurl at me as I barge in. In my youth, the barrage of noise, thick with fear, despair, and desperation, would’ve been too much for me. Now I compartmentalize and manage it without even realizing.

I stride across their kitchen’s yellowed tiles. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Who the hell are you?” the man asks. His arm draws back dramatically, but I catch his fist when it flies toward my face.

“I suggest you answer my question,” I say, squeezing his knuckles until his knees give out. I glance at the woman cowering in the corner and then down at the man whose bones begin to crush under my strength. “But since you’re indisposed, I’ll take a guess as to why her face is swelling up, and you can tell me if I’m right.” With lightning speed, I release his fist and capture his neck. “You had a little too much to drink, took it out on her.”

“She’s my wife,” he wheezes. “It’s the first time, I swear.”

I compress his throat. “That true?” I ask the woman without looking at her.

“Yes,” she sobs.

I cock my head to the side, watching him as he gasps for breath. “Want me to kill him?”

“No,” she says. “He’s my husband . . .”

“Are there children here?”

“They’re grown up,” she rushes the words out, “moved away years ago.”

His eyes blink lazily as his life circles the drain. This is the time to let go and leave him with his warning. But I’m assaulted by the disturbing image of Cataline crouched in that corner. I block it and force myself to refocus.

I drop him on the floor before he loses consciousness. I catch his arm on its way to his throat and swiftly wrench it at an unnatural angle. More screaming when it cracks, but this time it’s his.

“That’s nothing compared to what I’ll do if I have to come back here.” I dig a card out from a hidden pocket and set it on the table. “This is a battered women’s shelter nearby,” I tell her. “They’ll take you in, no questions asked.”

“Hero?” she calls as I turn away.

I don’t wait to hear what she’s going to say next. I’m out the window and downstairs in seconds. I don’t believe she’ll take my advice; many of them don’t. But that just gives me the excuse to come back and finish what I started. My body thrills at the thought, my heart pounding even harder than it just was.

I don’t normally let myself go so far. My code of ethics was developed by my parents and Norman to ensure justice is served only to those I’m certain deserve it. I need the boundaries because years spent cleaning up this kind of mess has made me a fiend for justice—and if I’m not clear-headed about every kill I make, my system will fail. But I have a special void to fill tonight, something I’m afraid is Cataline’s doing.

Norman sets a tray table next to me, but my eyes remain focused out the window.

“You should eat your breakfast,” he says.

“I will.”

“All right, dear. I’ll be back to check on you soon.”

Staring past the lawn at the thicket of trees, I wonder what I’d do if I ever made it there. How dense is it? How far does it span? Is that even what I want? I blink after what feels like minutes. Of course it’s what I want. To escape this hell, made even worse now I’ve met the devil. I’m ashamed for all the days and nights I ever fantasized about Calvin. All the times I defended him to myself.

He’s not mean.

He isn’t cruel.

He’s just private.

Under his cool exterior, he’s a good man who needs patience, understanding, and love, just like anyone else. If I had him in my clutches, I would peel away those layers until I’d exposed the beauty of him.

How could I have been so wrong?

The reality of my situation roils through me, settling in my gut: Calvin Parish is dangerous. And now that I know the truth about him, how can he ever let me go?

Heat creeps up my neck as I relive the crush of Calvin’s hard body on mine. The pressure of him between my legs, begging to enter. I get mild comfort from the fact that in the end, he respected my request to stop.

“You’re not going to fly away, are you?” I hear.

Calvin’s voice is smooth and deep, but he startles me just the same. I wait for my heartbeat to calm before turning to face him. “And if I did?”

His arms cross over his chest, punctuating his rigid posture. “Have you got hidden wings underneath that robe, Little Sparrow?”

“I might be willing to find out.”

His eyes narrow. “What does that mean?”

With a heavy sigh, I deflate deeper against the wall. “Nothing.”

“About last night,” he says. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I assure you it won’t happen again.”

“It won’t?” I ask.

“No.”

“Does that mean I can go?”

“I’m sorry?”

My thoughts scatter. “Isn’t that . . . ,” I start. “Why else would you . . . ?”

Silence follows, long and strained. His eyes drill into me without giving anything away.

“Then why am I here?”

“I’ve warned you about questions.”

“But what else could it be? I thought—”

“You are purposely trying my patience. Do you want to see what happens if you push me too far?”

His words leave a coat of goose bumps on my skin. I’m beginning to understand what he’s capable of physically, but it’s not knowing what’s underneath his exterior that scares me most.

“I have to return to the office. It’s important for us both that I maintain my routine. I recommend you eat,” he says, gesturing to the tray, “seeing as how you’ve slept until noon.”

“The office,” I mutter. “What do they say about my absence?”

He clears his throat and turns his face to the bed, his eyes resting on my mussed up sheets.

I can only laugh. “They haven’t noticed, have they? Hale probably replaced me right away. Such is my life, coming and going without anybody noticing.”

“That’s not true,” he says with surprising tenderness.

“You don’t know anything about me, so fuck off.”

I brace myself for a reaction. As seconds tick by, his impassive expression has me growing regretful of my comment. His eyebrows rise. “You ought to be careful, Cataline. Mouthing off can get you into trouble.”

Any regret vanishes. “More trouble than I’m already in?” I ask. “I’ve been kidnapped to fulfill some pervert’s sick fantasy. And since I know who you are, where you work, and where you live, I suppose you’ll have to kill me at the end of all this. So perhaps we move things along, and you make me do whatever it is I’m here for so I can have some relief from this hell.”

“As I just said, I won’t touch you again. Even,” he pauses to ensure my attention, “if you beg for it.” He takes a step forward, and I push back against the window frame. His large hand wraps gently around my throat until I’m covered with him. “And like a little sparrow, it would take nothing to snap your neck. I assure you, if that’s what I wanted, it would be done.”

He removes his hand, but I still feel his cold touch there. “I want to go home,” I say through a quivering chin.