IGNITE

CHAPTER THREE

EZRA

There are people in this world that draw your awareness without explanation. You notice them, even if you don’t understand why. Could be physical attraction. Could be something deeper—a recognition of someone’s soul.

I’d felt that man’s presence in the library even before his towering, broad frame stepped into view, his dark locks mussed over his forehead. Under straight, full slashes for brows, his deep brown eyes held nothing but glacial, bitter fury when they’d met mine.

He radiated absolute confidence, and my pulse took notice.

Shortly after he’d run off, I’d heard what I’d thought were suppressed gunshots. Instinct had me racing out the front doors, worried I’d find the man laid out in the alley. Wouldn’t be the first time I’d stumbled upon a dead body. Probably wouldn’t be the last.

What I hadn’t expected was to catch the man burying a knife in the shithead from the docks. You know, the one that gave my name to Gabriel.

Shock froze me in place while my brain struggled to process what the fuck was happening. Distorted bits of memory threatened to take me under like a tidal wave.

My hands, stained in blood.

My captor’s grip on my wrists going slack as the life drained from his body.

Stunned, near-black eyes searing into me, twinged with fear but promising punishment for my disobedience.

You don’t want to be a sinner, do you? You want to be good like me?

“Hey.” The man in the alley spoke in a deep voice, breaking me free of my demons long enough to run.

Submerging myself in the crowded streets, I push out a few long breaths to calm my ragged nerves. I’ve done well to keep the past buried, but something had shifted under the stress of the trouble I’d stirred up recently.

I just needed to keep moving. Keep running so nothing could catch up to me. I needed to make sure Jakey was okay after I spent hours at the public library researching Sinro Enterprises.

Bursting into the Hartman Shelter, I rush through the yellowing cafeteria tables and rub my palms together to get warm blood flowing.

My eyes skim over people huddled in small groups, dressed in mismatched, ragged winter clothes. One of the regulars, a nice woman named Gloria, waves at me from her table.

“Hi, Ezra,” she calls out. She’s working on stacks of paper snowflakes. One wall of the shelter is already covered with her excellent designs.

I put on my best smile, despite the panic stirring in my chest. “Hey, Gloria. Think we need more decorations. Not quite festive enough.”

She beams at me, and I’m hit with a wave of guilt at the thought that I might have lured bad people here. I’m a popular guy now, in the worst way possible.

It’s definitely not the first time I’ve messed up. I’ve been threatened, roughed up, stabbed, shot at, and even bitten by dogs over the years. But the shit I’d waded into this time was on another level.

Would the murderer hunt me down? Was it fucked up that I find myself attracted to him when I know he likes to play hide the knife in the human body?