Page 59 of Infamous
Every muscle in my body goes rigid. He’s standing in the middle of my living room - sweat-slick hair plastered to his forehead, shirt half-open, eyes bright and glassy with the kind of madness that doesn’t fade once it finds you.
“Michael,” I breathe. My throat’s dry, the name scraping its way out. “What are you doing here?”
He laughs, a sound that’s all anger and venom. “What am I doing here?” His lips curl. “That’s funny. I’ve been calling you for weeks, Nadia.Weeks.You don’t pick up. What, too busy spreading your legs for your new boyfriend?”
The air leaves my lungs. “I don’t have?—”
The back of his hand cracks across my face before I finish. The blow rings in my skull, white-hot and blinding. I stagger, slam into the wall, and the taste of iron floods my mouth.
“Don’t lie to me!” he bellows. His hand shoots out, locking around my wrist so tight the bones grind. “You think I didn’t see you with him? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
He yanks me forward, hurling me against the console table.The edge bites into my ribs; a picture frame crashes to the floor and shatters. The glass splinters scatter like like stardust. My eyes land on a jagged piece, but it’s too far for me to reach it.
“Michael, stop?—”
He shoves me again, hard enough that the breath bursts from my lungs. “Stop?” he snarls. “You don’t get to tell me to stop. You don’t get to pretend I never existed.”
His hand finds my throat. It’s not tight at first - just enough to remind me who’s in control. Then pressure. Slow and deliberate. His thumb presses under my jaw until my pulse stutters. I claw at his wrist, nails raking skin, but he only tightens his grip.
The smell of him - stale cologne, sweat, and rage - coats my tongue. “Please,” I rasp, voice thin as wire. “You’re hurting me.”
He leans in close, breath hot against my ear. “Good,” he whispers. “Maybe now you’ll know how it feels.”
Then he throws me down. The floor rushes up, my lip splitting as I hit the ground. The world tilts. The copper taste fills my mouth, pooling thick and metallic. My head throbs as my vision swims. Somewhere, something inside me cracks - not bone, but the last piece of hope I was holding onto.
For a long moment, I just stare at his shoes, inches from my eyes. They blur. A drop of blood slides from my nose and darkens the floorboards.
And I think - so this is it. This is how it ends. Not in some sterile hospital room, not under bright lights or steady hands. But here, in the dark, at the mercy of a man who once promised to love me.
Maybe it’s what I deserve. Maybe this is the universe evening the scales, collecting the debt it never forgot - the one it started when it took Lucian.
The thought drifts through me like a raging fire. Warm and heady, almost merciful. I tell myself that if death comes now,maybe I can finally stop fighting. Maybe I can finally see him again.
And just before everything fades, I swear I hear it - the sound of the front door breaking open.
And someone roaring my name like it’s a sacred vow.
37
LUCIAN
The curtains in Nadia’s apartment hang half drawn, a careless mistake that saves her life. From my spot across the street, I see her silhouette glide into the apartment. She’s tired, slow, unaware. She looks like a ghost of herself. The hospital drained her dry; she’s running on fumes and caffeine and that quiet kind of determination that makes me ache just watching her.
I told myself I’d just make sure she got home. Nothing more. Keep to the shadows, keep the distance. Watch her door, confirm she’s safe, and disappear before the craving to stay becomes too strong.
Then I see him.
A man’s shape moves through her living room - a jagged shadow pacing, predatory. The moment his hand flashes out, my heart stops. I recognize the build. The posture. The arrogance of someone bigger, stronger than her.
Her ex.
The bastard’s in her home.
My jaw tightens until my teeth creak. The street narrows to a tunnel, every sound blurring into a low, poisonous hum undermy pulse. I see movement again - sudden, violent. She stumbles back, and even from here, I know what that looks like. The kind of hit that leaves a mark.
The kind that wakes something I’ve spent years trying to bury.
I don’t think. I move.
