18. Aria

18

ARIA

Once again, I find myself in Zane's fancy car while he drives through the darkened streets of Puritan City. I feel like I'm living in some weird noir comic and he's the hero. The scent of leather and a hint of his cologne—something earthy and masculine—fills the air, adding to the strange comfort I feel in his presence.

"Where to?" Zane asks, his hands gripping the steering wheel.

I hesitate for a moment before giving him my address.

He nods, putting the car into gear. As we pull away from the curb, I can't help but wonder if I've made a mistake in trusting him with this information.

My gaze travels to the sharp angles of Zane's jawline, chiseled and defined. His hands grip the steering wheel with determination, as if it is a personal challenge he must conquer. The muscles in his arms flex, and I can sense the tension radiating off him. The car is an extension of him, his control over it absolute and unwavering. He always looks so damn intense, as though he can't help but make each moment more extreme. His eyes, deep and smoldering, hold secrets that seem to pull me in, making it hard to look away.

Antihero, perhaps. He doesn't fit neatly into the categories of hero or villain, and there's a sense of mystery surrounding his intentions. I can't quite put my finger on it, but something is driving him to act kindly, and for now, I'm content not knowing the reason behind his actions.

He didn't want to get to know me. He didn't want to understand who I am when we were at the diner. Then, when I showed up at the dojo, he wasn't nice per se, but he treated all the women the same, so I shouldn't feel special.

But I want to feel special.

Being a girl is hard, and an omega? Impossible.

I sigh and lean my head against the cool glass of the passenger window, watching the city lights blur by. The hum of the engine is a soothing background to my racing thoughts. The silence stretches between us, thick and oppressive.

Finally, Zane breaks the stillness. "Are you all right?" he asks, his piercing gaze flicking between me and the road. "You seem preoccupied." His jaw clenches, as if wrestling with his next words. "Is there something you'd like to discuss?" His voice is gruff, but there's a hint of concern beneath the rough exterior.

I shrug, not sure how to answer. "I guess. Just…a lot on my mind."

He nods, his eyes never leaving the road. "Anything you want to, um…" He pauses as though he's never said the words before. A muscle in Zane's jaw twitches as he concentrates on the road, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "To talk about?"

I bite back the retort I want to make about how hard that was for him. He's being nice. He looks like he should be mean and cruel, and I don't know how to handle this version of him.

I hesitate, biting my lip. Part of me wants to spill everything, to confess the fears and doubts swirling inside me, but another part, the cautious omega instinct, holds me back. All right, that's the self-preservation instinct.

My inner omega is a hussy.

"Not really," I lie, my voice barely above a whisper.

Zane doesn't pressure me, and I appreciate that. He seems to grasp the importance of quietness and allowing room to sort through a jumble of emotions.

We drive on, the city giving way to quieter streets and residential neighborhoods. The streetlights cast elongated shadows that flicker and dance across the car's interior. Finally, he pulls up in front of my apartment building, the car idling as he shifts into park.

"Thanks for the ride." The awkward as fuck ride. My hand is on the door and my foot is on the sidewalk when I pause. I can feel the frown on my face as I look at my apartment.

"What is it?" Zane grabs me and manhandles me back into the car. He moves so fast, I have no idea what's even happening until it's happened.

That was actually kind of impressive.

"Relax." I swat his hand away. "It looks like I left a light on in my apartment, that's all."

"Which one is it?" he demands, his voice low and commanding, his eyes narrowing as if he's trying to see through my fa?ade.

"The one in the kitchen," I reply a bit too quickly. His eyes narrow further.

"Stay. Here." Each word is clipped, delivered with an intensity that pins me to my seat. His hand is already on the door handle, muscles coiled and ready to spring into action.

"No way, Megamind," I snap back, grabbing his arm. "You're not coming in."

Zane turns to face me, his expression a mixture of frustration and concern. "You can't be serious. If there's even a chance that someone's in there?—"

At least he didn't say anything about me calling him Megamind.

"There isn't," I insist, cutting him off. "I just forgot to turn off a light. It happens."

He shakes his head, his jaw tightening. "I'm not letting you go in alone."

I groan, my frustration bubbling to the surface. "Why do you even care? You barely know me. You don't want to know me, remember?"

Zane's gaze turns to flint, and reckless determination flashes in his eyes. "This isn't about understanding you. It's about guaranteeing your safety."

"I can take care of myself," I retort, crossing my arms. "I don't need a babysitter."

"You're being stubborn and reckless," he retorts. "What if someone is in there? What if?—"

"What if nothing?" I interrupt. "I've lived on my own before, Zane. I know how to handle myself." Kind of.

His jaw clenches, eyes flashing with a mix of frustration and concern. "Aria, you're underestimating the danger. A few self-defense classes don't prepare you for real-world threats. You need to be more cautious."

Well, that was just rude.

I snap, my voice rising with anger. "Don't you dare lecture me!" My fists clench, and my jaw tightens as I continue, my words dripping with venom. "You have no right to dictate how I live my life."

"I'm trying to keep you alive!" he snarls, his voice snapping like a whip and making me jump. The rancor in his words stings my ears, and I can practically see the rage simmering beneath his skin. He clenches his jaw, the muscles popping and his jaw grinding.

Fuck, that's hot.

For some fucked-up reason, it turns me on, and maybe that means there is something fundamentally wrong with me, because I want to verbally spar with this man who taught me how to actually spar. It doesn't scare me, because somewhere deep in my hindbrain, I know he would never hurt me.

Unlike Noah. I always knew what he was capable of and pretended it didn't exist.

My voice cracks as I yell. "I don't need your worthless protection," I spit out. "What I really need is for you to get the hell away from me."

For a moment, we just stare at each other, the tension crackling between us like a live wire. Zane's eyes are hard, his body rigid with anger and something else—something I can't quite place.

His voice turns rough with anger as he tugs on his hair, nearly pulling it out in aggravation. "You're impossible!" he snarls, glaring at me. "Why won't you open up and let me help you? What are you so afraid of?"

My voice trembles as I admit, "Your help only makes me feel weaker." Tears well up in my eyes, but I fight them back. "I can't afford to be weak right now," I choke out through clenched teeth. My hands ball into fists at my sides, desperation and frustration coursing through my veins.

His expression softens slightly, but the intensity in his eyes remains. "It's not a sign of weakness to accept help, Aria. It's a sign of intelligence."

"Maybe for you," I whisper, my voice barely audible, "but not for me. Not anymore." My eyes narrow as I stare at him, daring him to challenge my independence, but deep down, I know that I am slowly crumbling under the weight of my own stubbornness and refusal to accept help.

Zane sighs, leaning back against the headrest. "Fine. If you're so determined to go in alone, then go, but I'm waiting right here until I know you're safe."

"Whatever," I mutter, pushing the door open and stepping out. As I walk toward the building, a small part of me is grateful for his stubborn insistence, even if I won't admit it out loud.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I might find inside. The lights are on, just as I said, but the feeling of unease lingers. I glance back at Zane, who watches me intently from outside, where he leans against the hood of the car, and then I head up the stairs to my apartment.

With trembling hands, I turn the key in the lock and push the door open. The weight of Zane's words rests heavily on my mind, questioning my competence and strength. Doubt creeps in, gnawing at my confidence, but I refuse to back down now. I will prove to myself—and to him—that I am capable, resilient, and unyielding in the face of any challenge. This is my chance to silence his doubts once and for all.

I step inside and close the door behind me, the click of the lock echoing in the silence. I stand at the threshold of my apartment, scanning the familiar space, but something feels off. The air is different, heavier somehow, and a chill runs down my spine. I can't quite put my finger on it, but an unsettling feeling nags at the edges of my consciousness.

Everything appears normal at first glance. The kitchen light is indeed on, casting a soft glow over the room. My living room is just as I left it, with books scattered on the coffee table and a blanket draped over the back of the couch, but the sense of wrongness persists, making my heart race.

It's all in my head.

I take a cautious step forward, my senses on high alert. The silence feels oppressive, pressing down on me with an almost tangible weight. I reach for my phone, my fingers trembling as I unlock the screen and hover over Cayenne's number. A part of me wants to call Zane instead, to admit that maybe I do need help, but my pride holds me back.

"Get a grip, Aria," I mutter to myself, trying to shake off the unease. "It's just your imagination."

As I move deeper into the apartment, the feeling only intensifies. I pause in the hallway, glancing toward the kitchen. The light seems brighter than it should be, almost glaringly so, and then I notice it—the faintest sound, like a whisper of movement, coming from the direction of my bedroom.

Every instinct screams at me to run, to get out of here and call for help, but I force myself to stay calm and assess the situation rationally. My training with Zane has taught me that fear can cloud judgment, and I need to think clearly.

I take a deep breath and step into the hallway, my movements slow and deliberate. The sound grows louder, more distinct. It's the unmistakable creak of a floorboard and the soft rustle of fabric. Someone is in my apartment.

My heart pounds in my chest as I inch closer to the bedroom door. I reach out, my hand hovering over the doorknob. For a moment, I hesitate, torn between the urge to confront whoever is in there and the need to escape.

I glance back toward the front door, weighing my options. Running means admitting that I need help and that I can't handle this on my own, but staying could mean facing an unknown threat alone.

Before I can make a decision, the bedroom door swings open, and a figure steps out. My breath catches in my throat as I take in the sight before me—a tall, menacing shadowy silhouette standing in the doorway. The dim light catches on something metallic in their hand, and I catch a whiff of a familiar, sickening cologne that sends my heart racing.

Oh hell to the no.

For a heartbeat, time seems to stand still, and then the figure moves. My heart pounds in my chest as I reach for the doorknob, fumbling with the lock. With trembling hands, I manage to turn the key and yank the door open. I burst out of the apartment, the sound of heavy footsteps echoing behind me, and I run like the hounds of hell are nipping at my heels.

I nearly slip and fall on the threshold as I run past, grabbing my door and slamming it as hard as I can. A squeak of fear leaves me as I hear pounding feet.

I race down the stairs as the sound of heavy footsteps echoes behind me. Panic courses through my veins, urging me to move faster and put as much distance as possible between myself and the intruder.

I burst out of the apartment building, the cool night air hitting my flushed skin like a slap. My lungs burn with exertion, and the rapid thud of my heartbeat drowns out all other sounds. Zane is already moving, his body coiled like a spring, eyes sharp and alert as they lock onto the naked terror etched across my face.

"What happened?" he demands, his voice sharp with urgency.

"Someone's in my apartment," I tell him, my words tumbling over each other in my haste to explain. "I heard them, and then I saw a figure in the doorway…"

Zane's jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing as he scans the area. "Stay here," he orders, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Before he can take a step, the front door of the building slams open, and the intruder emerges. Zane pushes me farther behind him, shielding me with his body as he faces the threat—a chance he never gets because whoever it is takes off toward the back of the building.

The figure darts away, disappearing around the corner of the building before we can get a clear look. Zane curses under his breath and starts to give chase, but I grab his arm, my fingers digging into his skin.

"Don't," I plead, my voice shaking. "Please, let's just go."

Zane hesitates, his body still poised for action, but as he takes in the fear etched on my face, his expression softens. He nods, placing a reassuring hand on my back as he guides me toward his car.

"Okay," he agrees, his voice low and soothing. "Let's get out of here."

We climb into the car, and Zane locks the doors before starting the engine. As we pull away from the curb, I can't help but glance back at my apartment building, a shudder running through me at the thought of what might have happened if I confronted the intruder alone.

Was it fucking Noah? The way the intruder moved, the sheer audacity of breaking into my apartment—it all screamed of his entitled arrogance. My stomach churns at the thought.

Zane reaches over, his hand finding mine and giving it a gentle squeeze. "I've got you now," he assures me.

I don't find it reassuring at all, because it could very well be Noah.

I need to call Cayenne and catch her up to speed, but a more pressing question bubbles out. "Where are we going?"

"To my pack house," he answers. "The Clarke pack."

My mouth pops open on a feral little, "Oh." My mind reels, pieces clicking into place. Zane, part of the Clarke pack? The very group I've been trying to avoid? A cocktail of emotions—surprise, confusion, and a hint of betrayal—washes over me. "You're…you're one of them?" I manage to stammer, unsure whether to feel relieved or cornered.