Protecting Riley

His hands crushed her throat, cutting off her air.

Riley kicked and clawed, her nails digging into his skin, but it didn’t stop him. The pressure on her windpipe was unrelenting, and the weight of his body pinned her down. Her legs bucked wildly, but there was no escape. Her lungs burned, her chest screamed for relief, but no air came.

Her vision blurred, darkness creeping in at the edges. She tried to scream, but nothing came out. She could feel the floor beneath her, cold and unyielding, as her body began to give out. And his face—half-shrouded in shadow, empty and cold—hovered above her, like death itself. Those eyes didn’t care if she lived or died.

Riley’s strength faded. Her body went limp. The world disappeared.

She woke up gasping, her chest heaving like she’d just surfaced from drowning. The room was dim, the quiet suffocating. She pressed her trembling hands to her throat, half-expecting to feel bruises there. It was just a dream. But it wasn’t just a dream—it was a memory.

His face was always blurred in her mind, no matter how hard she tried to pin it down. She could remember his hands, his strength, the suffocating terror—but his face always eluded her. And the thought of it always left her shaking.

Shaking it off, she climbed out of bed and stumbled into the kitchen. She cranked the music up loud, letting the heavy bass pound through the apartment. Music was the only thing that helped, drowning out the silence and smothering the fear.

The scent of rosemary and lemon filled the air as she moved around her kitchen, the sharp rhythm of chopping vegetables giving her something to focus on. She swayed slightly to the beat, her blonde hair falling loose around her shoulders, her bare feet padding softly on the floor. For a moment, she almost felt normal.

Then came the knock—loud and jarring against the music. Riley froze, the knife trembling in her grip. Her pulse spiked, adrenaline flooding her body as she crossed the room in careful steps. She didn’t breathe until her eye pressed to the peephole.

A man stood there, tall and broad, his hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. His dark hair was messy, his face rugged and shadowed by the dim light of the hallway. A faint scar cut across his cheek, and his piercing blue eyes were fixed firmly on her door.

Riley tightened her grip on the knife as she cracked the door open just enough to speak. “What do you want?”

“Good morning to you too. My name is Eli. Turn your music down,” the man said bluntly, his voice low and rough.

“Excuse me?” Riley blinked, thrown off by the audacity of the stranger.

“Your music,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “It’s shaking my walls. I live next door. Unless you’re hosting a rave, cut it out.”

Riley scowled, holding up the knife for emphasis. “Maybe get better walls—or move.”

His lips twitched, almost a smirk. “Interesting welcome. You planning to use that, or do you just threaten strangers for fun?”

She’s about to slam the door, but she heard someone call her name. A delivery man appeared at the end of the hall, holding a large bouquet. “Ms. Riley Monroe?”

Her stomach dropped.