4. Layla

4

LAYLA

The heavy fog clenches around me like ghostly fingers as I make my way down the winding cliffside road from where I was forced to park.

Rush hour on a Friday morning is never enjoyable, but it's even worse on a gloomy day like today when visibility is at an all-time low, and everyone comes into the city anyway, taking all the street parking available.

Wispy gray tendrils snake through the trees and swallow the iron lampposts. My breath fogs before me, and the rocky shoreline looms below, obscured by mist and stone.

I quicken my pace, shoes clicking on the damp cobblestones and my makeup fast becoming morning dew. The familiar walk to work has always brought me fresh air and comfort before sitting for hours in a cubicle, but today, nervousness prickles my skin through the fog.

I glance over my shoulder, unable to shake the feeling of unseen eyes tracking my every movement. And when a murder of crows bursts from the cluster of trees to my left, my harsh cry joins theirs, shattering the eerie hush blanketing the atmosphere.

That's it. I'm taking the road more traveled instead of enjoying my normal solitude through the side streets.

With a quick look both ways, I dart into the empty street, intending to cross to the other side and slip through a short alley before I reach Main Street.

A set of headlights pierces the gloom ahead. I freeze, blinded by the glare. The car's tires let out a piercing screech as it slides across the wet asphalt. I'm rooted in place like a deer caught in the headlights—though I always assumed that deer could fucking move out of the road if it really wanted to. Panic rises in my throat as the car barrels forward, no longer in control.

A strong arm wraps around my waist, yanking me back onto the sidewalk. My shoulder collides painfully with cold pavement, and we tumble to the ground in a tangle of limbs. The car rights itself and zooms past in a blur, horn blaring.

Gasping for breath, I clench my fingers tightly around the sturdy arm enveloping me like a shield. My rescuer meets my startled gaze, his eyes like metal left out during an unforgiving winter storm and surrounded by a torrent of jet-black lashes. But—his face .

A symmetrical masterpiece of creation. Angular, sharp, beautiful. His nose, straight and adorned with a faint scattering of freckles bearing testament to hours spent under an unforgiving sun, leads down to stern lips that are slightly parted as he catches his own heavy breaths. His scent is mind-blowing—leather, gunpowder, and underlying it all, a crisp note resembling the sea breeze mingling with forest pine.

Relief floods through me so fast, I fail to immediately register the jagged scar marring the perfection, running like a crooked river from the corner of his jaw and curving under his left brow.

Which, if I were in a better mental state, could signify he's not my savior but a potential kidnapper.

He slowly withdraws his arm from around my waist and pushes off me, his lean, muscular frame rising in a fluid motion that hints at a disciplined rigor. I remain sprawled on the sidewalk, struggling to process what just happened.

I stare up at him with wide eyes, still a deer.

"Are you alright?"

The voice is low, rough like gravel under the tires that nearly killed me but oddly soothing, lending an unexpected warmth to this horrible morning.

I nod mutely as he extends a hand to help me up. His grip is firm and steady, easily pulling me to stand. My legs wobble, but he keeps me upright with another hand on my shoulder.

His touch seeps through my windbreaker, unravels my sweater, and all but hands my breasts over to him.

"Thank you," I manage to stutter, my voice trembling as much as my limbs.

I'm acutely aware of his palm still pressed against me and radiating heat while his eyes stare into mine, dark and fathomless yet a startling blue.

How can someone's eyes be both? Yet his are.

Being the center of his focus makes my cheeks flush. I take in the jagged scar cutting across his cheek, the tension in his broad shoulders clad in a long black trench coat. He seems coiled like a spring and ready to react to any threat.

His hand on my shoulder relaxes, and for a split second, there's a flicker in his frostbitten gaze, like he regards me as more than just another wayfarer in this gray city who nearly got flattened by a car. I'm no stranger to people giving me a second look once they notice my different-colored eyes, but this is new. He's taking in everything—the curl of my hair against my cheekbone, the trembling of my lips as I try to regain my composure, and the way the chill has painted color across the apples of my cheeks.

His grip moves from my shoulder to my arm, fingers sliding down my windbreaker, but not before brushing over the dip in my collarbone—a touch light enough that it might have been accidental if it hadn't been for the way his eyes followed it.

I watch him curiously, my heart pounding a fierce rhythm against my ribs.

An irrational fear that he could be yet another danger pricks at my senses, but I discard it. He's just saved my life.

"Layla," I finally introduce myself, a little breathlessly.

He withdraws his touch as if burned. "Be more careful next time."

"I usually am," I sputter, still trying to regain some semblance of control over the situation. My legs feel like they could give out at any second.

He just gives a curt nod. I feel utterly exposed, as if he can see right through me. Nervous energy thrums through my veins.

"Well ... thank you, again." I repeat because gratitude seems inadequate against the weight of what he just saved me from.

The corner of his mouth quirks up slightly as if he can read my thoughts. But it falls as quickly as it came. He glances back toward the road, where the car has vanished into the foggy ether. "Don't make me do that again."

He studies me for a moment longer before he turns away. One moment, a savior; the next, a stranger detaching himself from my life as easily as he entered.

I shake my head, clearing the haze in my mind. "Hey! What's your name? "

He doesn't answer, his long strides carrying him down the fog-shrouded street until the mist swallows him whole.

I'm left standing breathless on the sidewalk, tracing the space where he stood only moments ago. Shoving my hands into my pockets for warmth, I force myself to walk in the opposite direction.

The fog has slightly lifted by the time I reach Pulse Dynamics. Its imposing glass building reflects a distorted image of Greycliff's oldest district, a reminder of how easily the new encroached on the old. I swipe my ID through the scanner and try to shake off thoughts of my early morning encounter.

Who is that guy?

And why does a part of me wish he hadn't left so soon?

My grumpy savior was terrifying to look at.

And gorgeous.

It takes four hours and a long wait at Whispering Waves Café, as well as downing two salt spray espressos before his face becomes a little more blurred in memory, and I can focus on the day ahead.

Emmitt was mysteriously absent this morning, and I can't say I'm not grateful for his lack of presence. In fact, I get way more work done than usual and clock out at five, getting in a light jog to my car and carefully, reluctantly, looking both ways before I cross the road.

I say "reluctantly" because a part of me kind of wants to do it again and see if he reappears.

I laugh as I slide into the driver's seat. So dumb. Why would I want to put myself in danger just to get a good look at him again? I have enough scary-crazy on my plate. I don't need to test if I have an angel in the form of a phantom protecting the road to my lighthouse. Or maybe it's just his job to collect my soul when I inevitably crash into the rocks below.

He probably would've saved anyone. It just happened to be me today.

Not with his kind of scars, my subconscious whispers. And certainly not with the pissed-off expression he used while he peeled you off the asphalt.

I reach the lighthouse just as darkness envelops the sky, turning the sea into a vast black void. The familiar sight of the old structure should comfort me, but tonight, it feels different.

Something's off as I approach the door to the keeper's cottage. I can't shake the idea of being watched. I look around for eyes in the shadows, but there's nothing. Still, that creepy sense sticks with me.

The porch stairs groan under my weight, a familiar sound playing along with the unfamiliar shiver of the wind at the back of my neck. I fish through my purse, feeling for the key ring and dreaming about the fireplace I'm about to light when I find it and fit my key into?—

CLANK.

Frowning, I jab the key against the lock again. It makes the same sound, refusing to fit.

My head falls back with a sigh. Once again, I've forgotten to turn on the porch light for myself when I come home, making it too dark to see the problem.

Finding my phone amid the debris lining the bottom of my purse, I angle the flashlight, then recoil with a frown, my hip banging into the salt-damaged railing and nearly cracking it all the way through.

"What the hell?" I whisper to myself.

The lock on my door isn't the old, worn one I'm used to grappling with. Instead, a new, high-tech lock with a pristine nickel finish is centered within my flashlight's beam. Where dread once resided, I'm feeling a swirl of confusion now.

Who would change my locks without telling me? I don't have a landlord, and the previous resident is dead.

Being located on the tip of a peninsula presents its own set of issues, one of which is not having neighbors nearby to ask if there was any suspicious activity while I was at work.

My arm drops to my side, taking my useless key ring with it.

It's a smart lock, featuring a small, illuminated pad for keyless entry. Above the keypad, a small, inconspicuous camera lens is embedded, almost invisible unless one knows where to look.

I let my purse fall to the floorboards so I can bend and study the lock further. Then I look around for instructions or a code left in my mailbox but find nothing.

A less stubborn woman might spin around and drive straight to the police station after seeing this, but I am no such thing. I will break this lock if I need to. This house is the only thing I have that's mine.

Cursing under my breath, since that's a lot better than panicking, I call the sole locksmith in Greycliff, who was out on a call, but whose wife adamantly denies ever booking a job for the cute young thing with the crazy eyes staying at the lighthouse. I believe her.

Drawing a deep breath, I lean closer, examining the keypad. My mind shifts gears from the perplexed new homeowner to the tech-savvy computer scientist I am. If this is a game, I'm not backing down and just breaking a window to get inside. No way am I inflicting such damage when I'm basically broke and drowning in student debt.

First, I check for the simplest solution—a factory reset code. But a quick inspection dispels that hope. This lock is far from standard.

Next, I observe the wear. It's brand new. No worn keys give away frequently used numbers.

"Think, Layla," I mutter to myself.

Then it hits me—what if the code is something related to the house itself? A historical date, maybe?

I try the year the lighthouse was built, running my fingers over the numbers. Nothing. I follow with the year it went from a manual lighthouse operator to an automated system. Again, the door remains locked.

Frustration ranks high on my list of emotions right now, but so does my determination.

This fucker is keeping me from the warmth of my home.

Then an unsettling thought crosses my mind. What if the code is something intimately personal to me? My stomach goes cold at the thought of a stalker's close observation.

Is this something Dawson did? Or the Mystery Man? With my near-death experience this morning, I hadn't given much thought to stumbling into Dawson's illegal side-job, but now…

Almost on autopilot, my mind drifts to the day I inherited this lighthouse—a strange legacy from a father I never knew, a man who was a mere afterthought in my life. Could it be?

With a tentative hand, I enter the date I officially became the owner of the lighthouse, five months ago on May 13, the day my life took an unexpected turn. The keypad responds with a soft beep, the lock clicking open in affirmation.

A creeping apprehension quickly overshadows my shout of triumph. The code is a date that only a few know and marks a significant shift in my solitary world. Whoever set this lock knows me and knows my life far better than I'm comfortable with.

If I think logically, the only strange occurrences I've experienced lately are my accidental recording on a USB and being saved by a dark, mysterious stranger on the street this morning. It'd be insanely coincidental if the two were related, and to top that off with the gift of a top-of-the-line lock I could never afford, I don't know what the hell to do with this puzzle.

Whoever installed this knows their tech, and now, they've seen my skills, too. But why challenge me like this? What's their game?

Fitting the phone into my hand to bludgeon an intruder if I need to, I slink through the front door. As my eyes adjust, I notice more small differences that were made to my home since I left.

The living room, usually bathed in the warm glow of my thrifted lamps, is now under the watchful gaze of small, unobtrusive security cameras perched in the upper corners of the wall.

With shortened breaths, I walk slowly, my footfalls heavier than usual. Next to the front door, where an old coatrack used to stand, there's a sleek, new control panel with a touchscreen interface.

In the kitchen, I find more upgrades. A small device on the counter blinks with a green light, a state-of-the-art air quality monitor.

The feeling of intrusion grows as I ascend the stairs to the upper level. I half expect to find more gadgets, and I'm not disappointed—or perhaps I am. My bedroom door now has a lock similar to the front door, promising a level of security I'm not sure I need. Or want.

Thankfully, it's not pre-coded like the front door, and the wood swings open at my touch.

Inside my bedroom, my eyes are drawn to the window, as they always are. The primary bedroom is set in what used to be the watch room, offering a panoramic, if not melancholic, view of the surrounding waters. The glass is often misted over from the sea spray, and the waves crashing against the cliffs are a constant lullaby.

But even this isn't free from the silent invasion. A slim, almost invisible sensor is attached to the frame, likely an alarm trigger.

My breath catches when a realization hits me— my thumb drive .

I run to my window and latch onto the curtain when I slip, nearly taking it down with me. Crashing to my knees, I fumble with the curtain's hem, searching for the tiny hole I made and running my finger through it until my shoulders fall with the weight of relief.

It's still where I hid it. Thank God.

Rising, I wander into the middle of my room with the drive biting into my palm as I clench it, staring wide-eyed at a place starting to feel like a sanctuary. I'd added soft textiles to my biological father's barren space, like throws, pillows, and rugs, now transformed into a stranger's idea of a fortress. These types of gadgets are meant to protect and make you feel safe inside your home.

But I never gave them permission to come inside.

So I wonder, are these meant to keep me safe?

Or keep me locked in?