Chapter 25

**G R A C E**

I feel his presence before I even see him—something in the air shifts, a subtle warning that creeps up my spine and makes the fine hairs on my arms stand on end. There’s a heaviness that lingers, like the air right before a storm. It’s not just the feeling of being watched; it’s more primal, instinctive, as if every nerve in my body is screaming at me to be on guard. And then he’s there, right next to me, too close for comfort. The visual I am welcomed with is not unpleasant, but it is also not pleasant. Unsettling is the word. Alarming. Like the feeling when you sense something move underneath your shirt, but you can’t place it, as if it’s crawling under your skin. I take a shaky breath, trying to ground myself, but it doesn’t help. If anything, it only makes the tension worse.

He’s beautiful in a way that’s almost disturbing. Sharp features, flawless skin, and eyes that seem to pierce right through me. But there’s something off, something that sends a shiver down my spine. Like how you would know that the Devil is beautiful, but that doesn’t make you feel at ease. His beauty isn’t calming; it’s cold, sharp-edged, like a blade disguised as a smile. It makes you wary, not drawn in. The perfection of his features only serves to highlight how unnatural the whole encounter feels. His presence is almost too smooth, too rehearsed, like someone who’s perfected the art of blending in just enough to slip under your radar—until it’s too late.

His scent is the first thing I notice, a strange, almost intoxicating mix of something earthy and metallic, like a storm about to break. It’s not unpleasant, but it feels like a warning, like I should be on my guard. My senses are on high alert, picking up everything—the subtle shift of his weight, the coolness radiating off him, and the way he moves with a confidence that borders on predatory.

I try to take a step back, instinctively creating some distance, but before I can, he places a hand on my waist, his touch firm but not rough. “Don’t move too much,” he murmurs, his voice low and smooth, almost comforting if it weren’t for the underlying threat in his tone. “Your foot’s already in bad shape. You don’t want to make it worse, do you?”

My heart skips a beat, panic rising in my chest. How does he know about my foot? Has he been watching me this whole time? Who is this man, and what does he want? The questions swirl in my mind, each one tightening the knot of anxiety in my stomach. I try to think logically, to piece together any clues from our brief interaction, but I come up empty. All I know is that I don’t like this—any of it.

What do you want? I want to ask him, but with his hand on my waist and my weakness in his knowledge, I decide to postpone the inquiry to a safer future opportunity. I’m not ready to play twenty questions with someone who could be a friend or a predator, and I can’t even tell which. But he’s patient. He just waits, watching me as if he can see every single thought flickering across my face. His gaze is unnervingly steady, like he’s dissecting me bit by bit, figuring out exactly how to manipulate the situation. It’s like being under a microscope, every insecurity magnified.

While the thoughts run through my head, he has taken the liberty to buy my dessert. For me? Why? The questions swirl in my mind, yet I let the transaction happen, feeling oddly paralyzed by his presence. There’s a practiced ease in the way he moves, like this isn’t the first time he’s done this, sweeping in with answers I never asked for and solutions I don’t trust. It’s unsettling how smooth it all is, like he knows what I’m going to do before I do it. There’s something almost rehearsed about the whole interaction, like he’s done this a thousand times before—helped someone out, charmed them just enough to let their guard down, and then... what? I don’t want to find out.

He takes the dessert from the counter, steering me along as if he’s known me for years, not minutes. I try to pull away, to assert some control over the situation, but it’s like I’m caught in a current I can’t fight. There’s a part of me screaming to dig my heels in, but my feet are killing me, and honestly, I just want this day to end. We’re almost out the door when I finally find my voice.

“Wait,” I say, pulling back just enough to stop us. He lets his hand off my waist this time. “Who are you? Where the fuck are you taking me?” Looking at him up close, I notice a sharp scar running down his jaw, continuing onto his throat. It looks painful. It also makes me very curious. I wonder how he got it, but more than that, I wonder why I feel like it’s a clue—a hint of danger wrapped in polished charm. The scar gives him a kind of twisted credibility, like proof that beneath the smooth surface, he’s not someone to mess with. I should be afraid, I realize. I am afraid, but there’s also a strange pull, like I’m drawn to the mystery of it all despite every warning bell ringing in my head.

He turns to me, his expression almost amused, as if he is glad I asked, as if he was waiting for me to ask. Like if I didn’t ask, he would be disappointed. The ghost of a smile on his taut lips, mocking me as much as it annoys me. “I’m a friend of a friend. And I’m here to help.”

He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t give me any more information, and that only makes me more suspicious. I take another step away. “I don’t know who you are, and I’m not sure what friend you’re talking about, so I’m not going anywhere with you. Thank you for the dessert, though.” I reach out to take the plate out of his hand, but he only holds it further away, higher than I can reach.

“You don’t trust me,” he says, more to himself. “But you’d like me to buy you a dessert.” He still sounds amused. He stops then, turning to face me fully, his expression unreadable. “You don’t trust me. That’s understandable. I can come off as...a little intense. But I’m not your enemy, Grace Miller.”

Hearing my name from his lips sends a chill down my spine, and I move to take another instinctive step away, but his hand finds its way back to my waist. “Don’t move too far now. I can’t hear that well from a distance.”

My eyes go back to his scar when he says that, and I realize it actually starts at his ear. While I do that, he’s reached into his pocket to pull out something. “This card,” he says, holding up the one that was just declined, “belongs to Alex Moretti. I’m an… acquaintance of his?” I don’t miss how it sounds more like a question. “You can call me Matt.”

Matt. Why do I think I’ve heard the name, and very recently as well?