Page 62 of Night Shift

Ibolted upright, my heart pounding and my eyes blinking rapidly. Crisp white sheets were tangled around my legs. Disoriented and groggy, I rubbed my eyes and tried to make sense of my surroundings. My gaze darted around the room, taking in the high ceilings, the unfamiliar decor, and the plush king-size bed enveloping me in its soft embrace. The luxury of the linens and the way the sunlight played on the walls made everything seem alien. It took me a moment to piece together where I was—Atticus’s home.

My mind raced as I thought about the events that had led me here. The horror of the previous night crashed over me. My apartment had been turned upside down, ransacked by men with who knew what kind of bad intentions. The memory of finding my belongings, my life, scattered and destroyed, flashed vividly in my mind, igniting a fresh wave of despair.

I recalled the attack in the parking lot that had happened just days earlier. The cut from the knife, the bruising from their rough treatment…it was all like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. Presumably, those were the same men who had torn through my personal space with violent abandon. The mere mention of them being associated with the Russian mafia had sent a cold wave of dread creeping over me and induced a suffocating fear that threatened to swallow me whole. I brought my hands to my face. Tears were streaming down my cheeks before I’d even realized I’d started crying.

I wiped at the tears, drawing in a shaky breath. My body was still a little sore from the attack, and the ugly stitches in my arm served as a painful reminder of the horrifying ordeal. The knowledge that those men were hunting me, possibly wanting to hurt, kill, or kidnap me, weighed heavily on my mind.

“God,” I whispered, flopping back down onto the pillow. “Why is this happening to me?”

My life was a complete mess. And even though Atticus had come to help me and insisted that I stay with him, I was frustrated and downright pissed off at him. My anger bubbled up to the surface. “Dammit, Atticus,” I whispered, wiping away more tears with the back of my hand. “Why did you ignore me after our hike and our night at your cabin?” I’d bared more than my soul, only to have him ignore me.

“Was a one-night fling all you wanted?” I hissed, thinking about how he’d kept his promise of keeping our sexual encounter as a mere experiment. But had it really been just an experiment? The connection we’d shared seemed like more than that, more than a night of sex to be disregarded so easily.

As I stared blankly at the ceiling, I recalled opening up my heart to him during our hike. I had shared my darkest secrets, my deepest pain—the death of my mother, caused by my father when he’d driven drunk, his abuse, his addiction to alcohol and drugs, my lack of trust in men…everything. And he had shared some of his past with me too, telling me about how his mother had died when he was fifteen.

I didn’t get it. Why would he want to know so much about me if his intention had only been to have sex? Why waste his time? It made no sense.

When we’d gone to his cabin, I’d trusted him completely, and he’d made me feel things I hadn’t known I was capable of feeling. It had been the most incredible experience of my life. Sure, I’d been the one to make him promise it would be a one-time thing, that we would never talk about it or tell anyone, but I hadn’t expected him to actually keep that promise, and it had crushed me when he’d never called or texted after that night.

Did he really not care?

Had I been so wrong about him?

Was he just another man who would let me down?

Maybe I wasn’t good enough for him. The pain of rejection twisted inside me like a knife. The age gap between us was significant, but it hadn’t seemed to matter that day…that night. Maybe it was all my baggage, what had happened with my father. Who would want to deal with that? Now I was becoming more certain I had simply been naive.

Tears continued to fall as my misery assailed me. Vicious thugs lurked in the shadows of my mind. Everything I owned had been lost. Atticus’s rejection…it was all a testament to how quickly things had spiraled out of control, beyond recognition. And here I was, trying to find my footing when the ground itself seemed to be shifting beneath me. I clenched my fists, willing myself to be strong despite it all.

“Get a grip, Samantha,” I scolded myself. “You need to figure this out; you can’t rely on Atticus or anyone else.” My resolve hardened, fueled by anger. I had trusted him with everything, only to have him ignore me—that is, until now, when circumstances had forced him back into my orbit. That had not been by choice but by necessity. The thought of relying on him, of being in his space, chafed against my desire for independence, for control over my life—a control that seemed laughably out of reach now.

But even as I tried to convince myself that I didn’t need him, a part of me still craved the safety and comfort I had found in his arms. The truth was undeniable: I wanted Atticus, but it seemed he didn’t want me. Unfortunately, I had to stay here and impose on him, and that was a bitter pill to swallow.

I pulled the covers tighter around me, a futile attempt at bringing myself some comfort. The safety of this place, and Atticus’s protection, was a double-edged sword. The room, with all its comfort and security, was like a gilded cage, a temporary reprieve in a world that had shown me its darkest face. And in this moment of overwhelming vulnerability, I realized just how much had been taken from me—not just possessions but pieces of myself I feared I would never get back.

“Enough!” I screamed. “No more self-pity. You’re stronger than this, Samantha.”

Pushing myself upright, I reluctantly dragged my weary body out of bed, deciding that a cup of coffee might at least put a dent in my gloomy thoughts. My foggy mind craved the sharp clarity only a strong cup of coffee could provide.

Barefoot, I stumbled down the stairs and caught a glimpse of my disheveled reflection in the hallway mirror. The state of my appearance was the least of my concerns, but I really did look dreadful. My hair, which had been a cascade of controlled curls at the gala, had kinked up into a wild, tangled mess. Last night’s makeup—what little was left of it—was now smeared under my eyes. Tears had carved paths down my cheeks, leaving salty trails on my skin, giving me the look of a scruffy raccoon. Conan’s sweatshirt and pants hung off me, the fabric swallowing my frame. I heaved a sigh.

The kitchen, with its sleek lines and state-of-the-art appliances, felt cold and unwelcoming. I moved automatically, searching a couple of cabinets before finding a mug. Thank God there was already some coffee made. I doubted I’d be able to figure the science fiction-looking coffee machine out. The fridge hummed softly as I opened it to grab the creamer, the chill of the air briefly jolting me.

It wasn’t until I turned around, cup in hand, that I realized I wasn’t alone. Atticus sat at the table, sipping his coffee and scrolling through his phone. Dressed in a black three-quarter zip-up, gray T-shirt, and joggers, he looked as if he’d just stepped out of a magazine. He was clean, composed, and devastatingly handsome, his short, perfectly trimmed beard and curly brown hair effortlessly casual as always. And here I stood, a total hot mess. The contrast between us couldn’t have been more stark.

I paused, the cup halfway to my lips, and he turned his attention to me. There was a moment, brief and charged, when the air between us seemed to crackle. Then, his lips twitched into a smirk, the kind that had always infuriated me.

“Good morning,” I said, trying not to make eye contact as I took a sip.

“Planning to audition for a role in a zombie apocalypse movie?” His voice was light, teasing, but it cut through me like a knife.

I blinked, taken aback by the jab at my appearance. A part of me wanted to snap back, to hurl a witty retort that would wipe that smug look off his face. But my weariness held me back.

Instead, I managed a weak smile and tightened my grip around the ceramic mug. “Didn’t realize I had to be camera-ready to get coffee in your house.”

Atticus’s smile widened, and a gleam of amusement appeared in his eyes. “It’s not the camera-readiness that’s in question,” he said, setting his phone aside. “It’s whether you survived the night or if I should start calling you a walker.”

Atticus always knew how to push my buttons and draw a reaction out of me. I let out a huff, a sound that was half-laughter, half-sigh. “Very funny,” I said, taking another sip of my coffee. The warmth of the liquid did little to thaw the chill that had settled inside me, but it was a start.

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